Exploring Sexuality
by moonbaby97
Summary: John always told everyone he wasn't gay, and eventually, he gave up. But at the same time, he found his eyes wandering to Sherlock more and more often. Would John figure it out before anything changed between them, or would Sherlock figure it out first? Rated M for possible later chapters. (Guys I suck at summaries, don't judge me)
1. Chapter 1

Title: Exploring Sexuality

Author: moonbaby97

Disclaimers: I really don't own Sherlock, John, or any of the other characters, settings, etc…

Warnings: Mention of hate crimes… very brief, but if that triggers you of bothers you, please don't read. I don't want to upset anyone xoxo

**Exploring Sexuality**

It happened again. It happens a lot still. When it happens now, though, John just gives up. He drops a polite nod and a shy smile. No longer does he immediately respond with, "Oh, but we're not-" or, "I'm not gay."

But he wasn't, for anyone who still cared.

That is not to say, by any means or stretch of the imagination, that John Watson had anything against the LGBTQA community. How could he, with Harry?

In fact, he usually goes out of his way to try to get Sherlock to take those cases when they come up. There was a bi teenage boy who was killed a month or so ago, for example. Sherlock almost didn't take the case, but John had looked at him and said a sincere, "Please." Sherlock had given him an odd look, too fleeting for John to place it, but agreed, much to Lestrade's thanks. He solved the case three days later.

After any case, Sherlock usually didn't even make it to his room, he merely crashed on the couch as soon as Lestrade let them go home, and after that case had been no exception.

Sherlock lay sprawled out on the couch, and John made himself a cup of tea. The case had been brutal, a hate crime, and those always reminded John of his sister, all the teasing she endured. He took his cuppa to the living room, switching on the telly for background noise. And he watched Sherlock. It was so unusual that he was still, let alone actually sleeping, and John knew he was one of very few people to have seen the great Sherlock Holmes look so… Normal. Vulnerable, even. Sleep took at least five years off the other bloke's face. He looked beautiful, John thought.

What? No. John was straight.

But this hadn't been the first time John had found his eyes or thoughts wandering, and he was starting to accept it, in the back corners of his mind. Maybe he wasn't exclusively heterosexual. Sherlock really did look beautiful, John let himself think again. With his dark curls, high cheekbones, lean torso…

"Stop," Sherlock's deep voice mumbled, startling John out of his reverie.

"What? Sorry," John said immediately, almost out of habit, shaking his head as if to dispel his thoughts. But Sherlock hadn't so much as moved. His chest was still rising and falling slowly, and his blue-grey eyes were hidden. Closed. His eyes were closed.

"You're staring," Sherlock informed him, still not moving. "Stop it. You woke me up."

John continued staring, baffled now, tea untouched in his hands. "My staring woke you," John stated slowly. It wasn't even a question.

"Yes, stop it. Or I will not go back to sleep," Sherlock replied curtly, opening his eyes to glare at John.

John felt his cheeks blush faintly as he met Sherlock's gaze for a second before looking away, to the telly, with a nod. "Right, yes then. My apologies, go back to sleep." Sherlock didn't sleep enough to begin with, had barely slept the past three days. He needed the sleep. John needed to stop staring. When had he started staring in the first place?

After what must have been over a minute, he felt Sherlock's glare subside as the other man's eyes slid shut again. John kept his eyes on whatever crap show was on the telly, though he wasn't really seeing it.

That had been the first of four such encounters in the month that passed since the teen's case. Neither of them ever said anything about the incidents once they had passed, but John could feel that things between him and Sherlock were starting to change. He couldn't quite tell how, but he knew Sherlock could feel it too. They talked less, then more, then less again. It went on for weeks, and John didn't stop staring.

"Demiromantic, recently bi-curious," Sherlock said from the doorway leading to the kitchen as John was cooking supper.

John didn't even look up. "Excuse me?" he asked instead, only half comprehending what it was Sherlock had actually even said in the first place.

"That's what you are. I'm demi-panromantic, grey-ace."

John could feel Sherlock staring holes in the back of his head, daring him to turn around, but he refused to turn away from the stove. "Sherlock, I don't even think I know what half of that means. Let alone how it applies to either me or you."

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly and walked back into the living room, throwing himself on the couch. He didn't move for the rest of the night.

By the time John was ready to go to bed, Sherlock still hadn't moved, hadn't so much as spoke another word. Used to his temper tantrums, John sighed and took his laptop with him to his room. And, because he was really no closer to understanding what Sherlock had said earlier, he Google-d it.

**Demiromantic-** needs a strong emotional connection to be romantically attracted to someone.

**Bi-curious-** John understood that one already, though had never thought to apply it to himself until Sherlock had said it.

**Panromantic-** can be romantically attracted to anyone, regardless of sexuality, gender identity, of gender expression.

**Grey-ace-** Grey Asexual. Mostly asexual, but with one or more exceptions, not necessarily dictated by any sexual preference.

John let all that process in his head as he shut his laptop down. After half an hour or more, he had come to two conclusions. One was that Sherlock was right, on practically everything. John was surprised he figured out the romantic part out as well, seeing as he had never thought there was a difference himself. He also decided that that was far too much to say, and would henceforth think of it as Sherlock- and John-sexual in his head respectively, no matter how silly it sounded. The second thing was that Sherlock had tried to tell John he was in love with him. And he fell asleep with those thoughts swirling around in his head.

A/N: Edited 7/24/2013 because I really should just get a beta…


	2. Chapter 2

**Exploring Sexuality**

**A/N:** I'm a straight cis girl, so if anything is inaccurate I apologize in advance. Don't be afraid to message me and call me out on anything I did wrong if you're more knowledgeable than I am!

**Ch. 2**

John woke at seven minutes to five to the sound of Sherlock playing the violin. John sighed. That was almost never a good sign, even more so considering they weren't currently on a case.

At least he had waited until an almost decent hour, John thought to himself. Maybe he could fall back asleep. But then everything that had happened in the past month, last night especially, came crashing back into his head, and John sat bolt upright.

Sherlock Holmes was in love with him.

John didn't even believe he was completely straight anymore, let alone not interested.

God help him.

He briefly considered hiding in his room for the rest of his life so he didn't have to make sense of what he himself was feeling, not to mention how Sherlock was feeling. About him. But he ruled that out as the tune of the violin turned to a harsher sound. John had been in the army, he was used to early mornings. The rest of Baker Street probably wasn't. Letting out a semi-frustrated sigh as he got up, John dressed and went down to the living room, where he knew Sherlock would be. Carefully walking up behind his flat mate, so Sherlock could see his reflection in the mirror if he looked, John was just about to place a hand on Sherlock's back and say something when the music abruptly stopped, and the man in control whirled around to face John.

"Don't."

"I-" John was a bit taken aback by the hostility in Sherlock's voice, though it didn't truly reach his eyes as well. "Five in the morning?" he corrected himself instead. "I'm sure Mrs. Hudson might actually be sleeping at this odd hour." Sherlock never liked it when John interrupted him, but he seemed unusually tense this morning. Of course, John knew why.

"Fine," the detective snapped, and if John hadn't known something was wrong before, he certainly would have then. Sherlock didn't listen to anybody. Ever.

So John, mildly shocked, let Sherlock half-shove him out of the way to put his violin back in its case, and he could feel how tense the other man was. "Um, thank you." He didn't know what to say, what to do. It was all too new, too overwhelming.

Either Sherlock could read his mind, or, more likely, he was still frustrated (with himself? With John?), because he stalked over to the doorway and grabbed his coat, pulling it on. "I'm going out," Sherlock said, practically slamming the door behind him, not giving John any time to reply.

John stared at the closed door, bewildered. "Okay," he muttered, mainly to himself. He set the kettle to boil and put some toast in before heading upstairs to grab his phone.

_Don't do anything stupid. –JW_

Fifteen minutes, two pieces of toast, and a cup of tea later, he received no reply. Not that he was really expecting one.

_Stop and eat something. –JW_

_Or just respond so I know you're not dead. –JW_

_Or putting yourself in life-threatening situations. –JW_

_Again. –JW_

_I'll come find you. –JW_

_You wouldn't be able to. –SH_

John sighed in relief. Two hours and eighteen minutes.

_Thank you. –JW_

He didn't get another reply after that, but he didn't need one. John turned his phone on silent so he wouldn't forget to for work and put it back in his pocket. He showered and got ready for work like it was any other day, trying to keep a resemblance of something normal in his head. He had a relatively constant stream of patients that day and didn't get a chance to look at his phone again until he was in a cab on his way back to Baker Street. Three missed calls from a blocked number, and a text from Sherlock telling him not to pick up. Probably Mycroft then. Wonderful. John sighed and paid the driver, letting himself into the flat.

"Did you answer it?" Sherlock asked before he had even taken off his jacket.

"No, I was working," John replied with an almost audible roll of his eyes, hanging up his coat and looking to Sherlock. He seemed to be in a better mood, but he was in his thinking position, laying on his back with slim hands templed under his chin. "What did he want?"

"It's none of his business; don't pick up if he calls again."

Definitely Mycroft then. "He will merely give up on trying to call us and come over himself if you don't just talk to him," John pointed out. It had happened more than once. Mrs. Hudson always let him in.

Sherlock huffed from the couch. "It is none of his business," he repeated crisply, as if John were suggesting they invite the man over for supper that evening.

"Alright, whatever," John replied with a shrug, not thinking much of it; he didn't need to get between the two brothers. He carefully maneuvered around their mess of a kitchen, though it had been relatively clean before he left. "I am going to assume you haven't eaten all day," he called, poking around through the edible things left in the fridge. "I can order takeaway," he offered when that elicited no response.

"Chinese," he heard Sherlock call back after a short pause. So John called and ordered Chinese from the place down the block.

"Forty-five minutes or so," he informed, sitting down in the armchair and switching the telly on, earning a noncommittal grunt from Sherlock. Things were almost normal again. If you ignored the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

John let fifteen or more minutes of silence pass between them before turning to look at Sherlock. He was surprised to find the other man staring at him. "Most people don't prefer to have their sexual orientation casually announced to them," he managed to get out after another minute.

"You aren't 'most people,'" Sherlock replied instantly, not taking his eyes off John.

John heard the unspoken, "not to me," even if Sherlock hadn't intended him to. Sherlock's gaze was so intense that John had to look down, though he hated himself for it. "I…" he started lamely, then hesitated. "You have to give me some time to absorb all of it, figure it out myself, yeah?" John looked up again to see the look of pain flash briefly pass across Sherlock's features before he composed himself and nodded once, and John hated himself even more.

"Okay," was all he said though, and his voice sounded normal. But John knew better. Sherlock wasn't looking at him anymore. He was staring resolutely, though blankly, at the telly, and John sighed.

"That wasn't necessarily a no." Sherlock didn't move, and John knew that meant he would no longer get a response. This discussion was closed. Which was almost a good thing, because John didn't know what he would have said next anyway.

When the doorbell rang signaling their food was there, John placed a very chaste kiss to Sherlock's forehead as he walked by, as if a promise, but almost instantly regretted it as he watched the man's whole body go rigid. Neither of them spoke much the rest of the night. Though hard to imagine, the tension between them got worse, and John again went to bed with a lot on his mind.

**A/N:** Thank you so much for all the reviews; this is my second ever Johnlock fic, so it's really appreciated. And I know I'm a horrible person (TheQueen'sAttack xoxo). Sorry. Ish. Updates should be pretty regular for the rest of the summer, it's not like I have a ton of summer work to do…. Oops.


	3. Chapter 3

**Exploring Sexuality**

**A/N: **This is a sort of bonus chapter, seeing as it's maybe half as short as I usually write. I didn't really plan on writing it, but I couldn't get it out of my head.

Also, in the last chapter it said something like, "…so Sherlock could see his reflection in the mirror if he looked…" It's supposed to say window, but if I type too fast sometimes my fingers will fill in words that are more common, and where do you see your reflection? The mirror. So yeah, sorry.

**Ch. 3**

John stared up at the ceiling that night with his arms crossed behind his head. He had kissed Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't even completely sure why he had done it; they weren't actually together yet, and John still wasn't sure he even wanted them to be. True, he found Sherlock attractive. Sure, he liked the git; he was a genius, but he was also insufferably stupid sometimes. Clearly it had taken a lot for him to tell John, even if it was in the most Sherlock-y way possible, that he fancied him.

How long had Sherlock felt this way? He had said he was demi- panromantic, which meant he needed the emotional bond first to connect with someone that way, but within a week of knowing each other, John had already (possibly, if he were wrong) saved his life and chased him through London, ignoring the fact that they then moved into a flat together. How much of an emotional connection was needed first? Was it different in John's own mind? Lestrade had told him maybe a month after they had met that he had changed Sherlock. John couldn't tell, the DI said, because it had been almost instantaneous, but everyone else could, and it was for the better. Did that mean something? Did Sherlock change _for _him, of _because_ of him? What would the difference matter? Was there a difference?

He, John Watson, had kissed Sherlock Holmes. That thought kept running through his head, along with Sherlock's reaction. John felt a little guilty about that, but he couldn't warrant that reaction for such a small kiss to the forehead. Of course, this was Sherlock we were talking about. That had been the first time John had kissed another man. Even if it wasn't a "real" kiss, it was still a kiss. And John had done it with no prompting whatsoever. It had just felt right, like a natural thing to do. Apparently Sherlock hadn't felt the same way.

Had that small kiss ruined their friendship? Their chance at a relationship? What if their possible relationship ruined their friendship? John didn't think he could handle that. He had come to need Sherlock in his life. Was that his demiromanticism working? He still didn't totally understand all of that, but he figured it was true. Any of the girlfriends he had had, especially since meeting Sherlock, hadn't exactly worked out. And he hadn't been terribly upset to see most of them go.

But the _sex._ "Because I'm trying to get off with Sarah!" John remembered that clearly, remembered how Sherlock couldn't comprehend why John didn't want him there, why he didn't want to help at the moment. Sherlock said he was a grey ace. Did that mean he was sexually attracted to John? Or was that his way of saying 'I really don't want to have sex at all. Not with you.'? Why would he have pointed out the grey part then? Just being honest? Did John even want Sherlock to be sexually attracted to him? Not even in the army had John had sex with another bloke. They had jerked each other off once or twice when they were drunk and needy, but that hadn't really been sex. John had always thought of it as helping a mate out, and he had tried not to think of it that often. What Sherlock had said was true tough. He _was _curious. Was this newfound curiosity specific to Sherlock? Was Sherlock curious? Did he already know? Normally John would have found the latter more reasonable, but in this situation he truly had no idea what to expect. Had Sherlock found a grey spot in his asexuality before, or was John the first? How did both those possibilities make him feel?

There were far too many questions, and not nearly enough answers, and sometime well after midnight, John finally fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Exploring Sexuality**

**A/N: **This chapter is over twice as long as "normal," so that's why it might have taken a little longer (I had meant to post it yesterday), but enjoy! :) Reviews are always welcome

**Ch. 4**

John didn't have to work the next morning, but he woke around eight to his mobile ringing. He picked it up and answered it without looking at the ID. "Hello?" he mumbled.

"Oh, John, good," a familiar voice drawled and John huffed. Mycroft.

"I am not supposed to be talking to you," John informed the eldest Holmes, none too politely. "Apparently it is, "none of your business.""

"Yes, but a respectable man like yourself wouldn't hang up now, would he, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft nearly purred through the line, clearly full of self-satisfaction.

John let his head thump back against the pillow, pressing the heel of his hand into his eyes. "Just get to the point."

"Always so straight forward," Mycroft replied, and John could picture him shaking his head disapprovingly. "I can make a fairly educated guess that my brother has told you how he feels about you, though I doubt it was as blunt as you'd prefer I be." John's eyes widened in surprise, and he opened his mouth to interject and ask how Mycroft could possibly know that, but he let it slide as the other man continued to speak, knowing it was useless to ask. "I can assume it came as a mild shock to you, and can imagine you are in a very tight place right now. I wanted to tell you that Sherlock does not love easily, but you can still walk away if you so choose. You know how he obsesses over things, and he will do the same with you, should you let him. My brother may not love easily, but when he does, it is quite often completely, and you will know."

John heard Mycroft take another breath to keep speaking, but saw his chance to cut in. "Mycroft, thanks, but I think this is something we need to figure out on our own. I like to manage my own love life, thank you."

There was silence on the other end of the phone for a long while, and John wondered if he had accidentally hung up somehow. Then he heard Mycroft sigh heavily. "I understand," he said slowly, as if he regretted letting the conversation drop. "Do try not to hurt him, Doctor Watson," the man added before hanging up himself, leaving John no time to reply. He was starting to think it was a Holmes' habit, making sure they got the last word.

John put his mobile back on the small dresser by his bed and rubbed his hands over his face, letting out a sigh. He needed to get up, to do something. So he pulled himself out of bed and took a very hot shower, letting his mind wander. Of course, then it wandered to Sherlock, and the water got cold much too fast.

The flat was silent outside the bathroom, and after he dried off and got dressed, John found he was alone. However, there was a note on the table with Sherlock's handwriting, telling John he was on a case. An apology of sorts; Sherlock never left a note. He also didn't leave an address. Half an apology, then. So John made eggs for breakfast and decided he would go to the market and do the shopping. He wouldn't touch the kitchen, his own apology, knowing whatever Sherlock was working on was probably "all in its proper place" scattered about as it was. Therefore he ate his eggs in the living room, listening to the silence of the flat and playing what Mycroft had told him over and over in his head. Another thing to think about, another thing to consider. He pondered over it as he ate, and then some more as he did the dishes before pushing it out of his mind while he did the shopping.

When he got back after much thinking and with his hands full, Sherlock was thinking on the couch again, at least two visible nicotine patches on his arm. He ignored John as he walked in and put the groceries away, and John let him, knowing better than to disturb him while he was thinking like that. He made two cups of tea as quietly as he could, setting one on the coffee table should Sherlock decide he wanted it.

"You picked up," Sherlock said, opening his eyes to glare at John half-heartedly.

It took John a minute to realize what the other man was talking about, and when he did he shrugged apologetically. "I was half asleep, didn't look to see who it was," he explained.

Sherlock huffed out a breath that clearly meant, 'how could you be so carelessly stupid?' but gave no other response, closing his eyes again. John drank his tea and flipped through the case file that had been thrown on the coffee table. Another hate crime. It must be connected to the boy's murder last month, John thought, or Sherlock wouldn't have taken it. A young lesbian couple had been killed this time, and John frowned, putting it down without reading the whole thing. It reminded him too much of Harry.

"I thought we got the bloke that killed the teen?" John asked after a little while, trying to figure it out in his own head and looking over at Sherlock.

"It must be a group, an organization. It has to be. I missed it," Sherlock replied curtly, clearly frustrated with himself. He clenched his fist and let out a slow, even breath.

John nodded silently, letting Sherlock think. He let himself watch, too. It was amazing, watching Sherlock think. You could practically see the wheels turning over in his head, though he sat almost perfectly still. He was stunning.

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped, though John hadn't actually said anything. John sighed and tried not to think as he watched Sherlock and drank his tea. After ten or so more minutes, he gasped, sitting bolt upright and springing off the couch, calling for John to bring his gun with him.

John set his now empty mug down hastily and went to go grab his gun, shoving it down the waistband of his trousers as he ran out of the flat after Sherlock. The consulting detective was just getting into a cab and beckoned for John to follow him, handing John his jacket as he gave the cabby the address they were going to. "Thank you," John said, pleasantly surprised as he shrugged his jacket on.

"I knew you were going to forget it," Sherlock replied as if it were obvious. It probably was.

John felt the tension settle around them in the back of the cab, though it wasn't quite as bad as it had been last night. "So where exactly are we going?" he asked when Sherlock didn't offer up the information, trying to focus and get caught up with all he needed to know. "And what are we doing there?"

"We are going to the skate park downtown to stop the next murder," Sherlock replied calmly, though neither of them were really dressed to blend in at a skate park. He was looking almost everywhere but at John.

John let that sink in and nodded. "Tell Lestrade," he said, mind whirling.

"Useless. He won't get there in time."

"I don't care; text him anyway, or I will." Sherlock didn't move for a minute, but just as John was about to get his own mobile out and do it myself, he typed a quick text out to Lestrade, presumably, still not looking at John. "Thank you," John said again. They weren't technically allowed to go off on their own, but it had happened more than once, and Lestrade liked to have a heads up when it did. "So tell me what I need to know."

Sherlock filled him in briefly on the details of the case, how it was connected to the teen's. The next target was 23 year old Brett Montgomery, 5 foot 11 inches, dark hair almost to his shoulders, blue eyes, glasses. In a committed relationship with Khyle Adams and close friends with the women who were killed recently. The suspect should be around six foot, slim, light hair, no glasses, but Sherlock wasn't positive. He didn't say that, of course, but John could tell. The whole time he spoke, Sherlock didn't look at John once, and it was starting to drive him insane. But he needed to stay focused, needed to pay attention to the case. So he looked away from Sherlock too, instead looking out the window, trying to reign in his thoughts.

When they got to the park, amidst a few odd looks, Sherlock immediately found Brett and went over to him, acting natural while John walked the perimeter. There was barely twenty other people in the park, if that, and there were three people that fit the suspect's description. Once John pointed them out, they had a system, Sherlock deduced it was the man immediately to his left, to John's right, and John nodded once. They couldn't do anything until they were positive, but they were both ready.

Five or so minutes later a young woman walked up to Sherlock and Brett, blocking John's view of the latter. They talked for a while, and John saw Sherlock's eyes flicker briefly to him. She reached in her back pocket at the same time Sherlock tackled her and John pulled out his gun. Brett was pushed out of the way, and John saw a flash of silver by Sherlock's chest before he turned to their suspected man. But he was watching in shock and horror, and John quickly realized what Sherlock must have realized seconds earlier. They were wrong. He wasn't the killer.

The woman was. She even fit Sherlock's description too, if only she was shorter, damn it all.

And she was grappling with Sherlock on the ground.

With a knife.

John cussed under his breath and ran the ten or so yards to where they were, gun steady in his hand and pointed as best he could at the woman. He couldn't get a clear shot though, not without the possibility of hitting Sherlock instead. They were a whirl of black, the only colors being the silver of her knife, the blonde of her hair, and the red dripping down Sherlock's cheek.

John heard the sirens outside as he reached the pair, Brett still shocked on the floor a yard or so from them. With some effort they got the knife out of the woman's hand; she was stronger than she looked. Sherlock let John pin her to the ground, seeing as he had the military background and they were still lacking a pair of handcuffs. She cussed and insulted them both, threatening Brett and telling him he was going to Hell as she struggled beneath John. Brett looked like he was going to cry by the time Lestrade and he crew came in and told her her rights, cuffing her hands behind her back.

"Bloody hell!" Lestrade exclaimed, looking at the two of them as someone else led the woman to a car. "Do you know it's technically illegal to do that?" he said, not for the first time, handing Sherlock a cloth to hold to his cheek to staunch the bleeding as they waited for the medics. "Are you all alright?"

John had sat down next to Brett on the floor, rubbing the other man's back soothingly like he had used to do to Harry when she had a particularly rough day when they were younger. He looked up at Lestrade though and shrugged sheepishly. "We survived," he responded, his unused gun that Lestrade had studiously ignored back in his waistband.

Sherlock ignored the DI completely and tied the cloth tightly around John's arm, much to his surprised protests. When John opened his mouth, Sherlock cut him off. "She cut your arm," he explained matter-of-factly.

"Sherlock!" John protested anyway, looking up at the other man. "Your head-"

"Will heal."

"Not as fast as my arm!" To be fair, John hadn't even noticed he was bleeding.

A medic was there before he could protest much further, and Sherlock grumbled that it was fine as they looked him over. Lestrade talked to Sherlock as they did so, having watched their little exchange with barely concealed amusement. He gathered the basic information that Sherlock had figured out before the man recounted what had just happened, paying no mind to the medics fussing over his head. The cut wasn't actually on Sherlock's cheek, it was near his temple, but she had got him relatively good, probably aiming for his throat. Brett didn't have a scratch on him, thank god.

John sat next to the other man still, talking with him softly as he calmed down. He was in a bit of shock, but otherwise unharmed. John wondered what Sherlock had said to him to get him to talk and act natural around a complete stranger. It clearly hadn't been, "You're in danger and I'm here to help." John told him about Harry and listened as he talked about Khyle for probably close to half an hour or more while Lestrade talked to Sherlock.

When they were done, Lestrade told Sherlock and John they could go home, and John bade Brett goodbye, wishing him and Khyle the best of luck from now on. Sherlock hailed them a cab, a bandage wrapped around his head and messing up his curls. The cloth on John's arm was still tight where Sherlock had tied it.

"I hadn't noticed," John admitted to the silence a little while later. "Thanks for that, though it was stupid of you."

"I know you hadn't; it was stupid of you," Sherlock quipped in return, not having looked at John since they left the scene.

"It wasn't serious," John felt compelled to point out. "She cut my jacket, though."

"I was more concerned about you."

He still didn't look at John as they spoke, but John was staring at him. He didn't think Sherlock had meant to say that aloud, and there was a faint blush on his cheeks that confirmed it. John felt the urge to kiss him again, just a small peck on the cheek. Taken aback by both Sherlock's words, the initial action, and the reaction it had stirred inside John, ad he didn't say anything for quite a while. "I know," he whispered, still trying to find his voice. "Thank you." The feeling had been mutual. He felt like he was saying that a lot lately, and not just out of habit. Sherlock was going out of his way to make sure John was comfortable, letting him think this all over himself.

"Don't mention it," Sherlock replied easily, though John heard both the tension in his voice and the double meaning the words held. Pretend he had never said that.

"You should eat," John said, changing the subject for Sherlock, though his head was still spinning a little. The urge to kiss him had faded. "I did the shopping, or we could go out if you'd prefer."

"Not hungry."

"Too bad."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance and turned to look agitatedly at John, but he couldn't quite manage it. "Angelo's is probably one of the only places that will take us like this," he ceded after a pause, gesturing to his head and John's arm.

"That's fine with me," John agreed.

Sherlock huffed again and told the cabby to take them to Angelo's instead. It was only about one thirty in the afternoon, so the lunch rush should be over. The cabby grumbled a bit, but changed their route and dropped them off in front of the restaurant. John paid him as Sherlock walked in, holding the door open as he waited for John.

"Sherlock! John! My, what has happened to the two of you?" Angelo greeted them, motioning them towards the same table they always sat at, by the window, and grabbing them a candle as he always did. John had stopped protesting that as well, though for a second Sherlock looked as if he might this time.

"We ran in to a bit of trouble with a case," John explained nonchalantly, sitting down as Angelo handed them each a menu. "Everyone else is fine, though. Just a couple scratches for us."

Angelo nodded at John with an 'I should have known' type of expression on his face and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "Well, glad you are alright then. Anything you want- it's on me," he said before leaving them alone again. John didn't think they had ever paid for anything here.

Sherlock looked at the menu for all of maybe twenty seconds before looking up at John instead. "When did you stop objecting?" he asked with the look of frustration he always wore when he couldn't remember a detail about something on his face.

John knew almost immediately he was referring to the candle and he thought on that, not entirely sure himself. "He never listened. Probably around a month or two after we met," he answered as honestly as he could.

Sherlock nodded and looked down at the candle on the table as if it had personally offended him, "You don't tell people we aren't a couple anymore, either," he said quietly, calculating, not stating it as a question, but almost as an accusation.

"No, I don't," John agreed with a nod, looking at Sherlock a bit curiously. He hadn't expected him to start this conversation, least of all in public.

"Why not?" This time it was definitely an accusation, and Sherlock was looking over at him intently, as if he could read John's mind if he tried hard enough.

John sighed softly, knowing he didn't really have the answer Sherlock was looking for just yet. He still had a lot to figure out by himself, but maybe this was something Sherlock needed to figure out with him, so he gave it an honest amount of thought. "Because no one ever gave us any rubbish about it, so why should it bother me that they all thought we were together?"

Sherlock didn't respond, but was still staring at him when Angelo came by to take their order. He didn't take his eyes of John's face as he told Angelo what he wanted, though John looked to Angelo when he made his order. "Did it bother you?" Sherlock asked as soon as Angelo left.

John looked back at Sherlock seriously. "A little, at first. When five people in just as many days have told you you're gay and you have always thought of yourself as straight, if can get a tad annoying," he said honestly. "I was never insulted, however," he amended after a short pause. "Not once."

Sherlock looked confused. "Why would you be offended?"

"Would you be offended if someone assumed you fancied Anderson?"

Sherlock glared at him, making a face but understanding then what John meant. It was a compliment. "Of course," he said then, smirking at John. "Anderson is married and already shagging Donovan."

John sighed, rolling his eyes. "That was almost polite," he teased.

Sherlock made another face at him, as if to say, "You know it's true," and for the first time in a while the tension between them lifted. It was like everything had gone back to normal for a little bit.

Except Sherlock was still staring at John, who eventually sighed, half rolling his eyes. "What?"

"I want to talk to you back at Baker Street."

John hesitated a second, realizing this was one of those times that if he said yes, he really had to take it seriously, then nodded. "Alright," he agreed, trying to keep his voice casual.

"Don't do that." John raised an eyebrow at him, and Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. "Pretend. Hide. Change your tone to appear normal. I want to _know,_" Sherlock explained, and John understood.

"Okay," he said quietly. But the thing was, _he_ didn't know. There were so many things swirling around in his head, fighting for control, and he figured Sherlock was watching them all flash across his face, because neither of them said anything else until their meals came.

They talked a little as they ate, and John finally started to feel the pain in his arm. He could bandage it properly when they got back home. And take a look at Sherlock's head. They probably looked like quite a sight, sitting in a restaurant eating normally while they were all beat up like that. But John couldn't bring himself to care. Brett was safe, and Sherlock had given Lestrade enough information to find the rest of the hate group, plus whatever information the woman they caught would tell them. And Sherlock was safe.

John thought that was a pretty good deal right there, and he would take it any day.


	5. Chapter 5

**Exploring Sexuality**

**A/N:** This chapter is pretty long too, so maybe the other ones were just short..? Thank you for all the positive feedback, you guys are wonderful. Also, this is my longest fic to date! Yay! :)

**Ch. 5**

The cab ride back to Baker Street was almost silent, as silent as a cab ride could be, anyway. Sherlock got out and John paid the cabby again before following after him. Sherlock was already in their flat, on the couch with his hands steepled under his chin, elbows on his knees. John sighed internally and gingerly untied the makeshift bandage on his arm. Then he pulled off his coat and hung it up, heading to the bathroom to get the first-aid kit. He felt Sherlock's eyes on him the whole way. "I was talking to Brett; how bad is your head?" he called, scowling at his now ruined sweater and pulling that off too, leaving him in just his undershirt as he walked back into the living room.

"I'm fine."

"That wasn't what I asked," John chided, sitting in his armchair across from Sherlock. His arm wasn't that bad, and would take a week at most to heal completely. He bandaged it properly after applying a bit of antiseptic, then huffed and sat next to Sherlock on the couch, setting the kit in his lap. "What did they say?" John asked truly not knowing how bad it was, if it was okay for him to remove the bandage at all.

Sherlock huffed in return to John's doctoring. "It's fine, but you can do it again if you feel the need to. Take _this_ off," he said, gesturing to the length of cloth around his head.

John smiled a little and nodded, carefully taking the bandaging off and turning Sherlock's head this way and that so he could see how much damage there actually was. He found himself acutely aware of how close Sherlock was, how his hair ruffled when he removed the bandage, how his breath hitched just a tiny bit if John touched too close to where the cut was. His wound was worse than John's, but didn't _really_ require the bandaging around his head too. It occurred to John that they might have done that just for show, and he smiled some more. "I can't leave it open, for sure, but I don't have to put the cloth over it either," he explained, subconsciously slipping into his "doctor voice."

"You don't have to baby me," Sherlock said a bit grumpily, though he was glad it would just need a regular bandage. He hated people fussing over him, but he might grow used to it if it was John doing the fussing.

"Habit," John replied, not sounding in the least bit apologetic as he applied some antiseptic to Sherlock's temple as well before covering the cut with a large Band-Aid. "There," he said, pulling back, suddenly distinctly aware that Sherlock's face was literally mere centimeters from his own.

"I still want to talk," Sherlock said quietly, which was unusual for him, and he pulled away from John a bit, putting more space between them.

"I'm still going to listen," John replied when he found his voice again. "Let me put this away, first," he added, replacing the things to their proper place in the first-aid kit, then getting up to return it to the bathroom cabinet. When he came back, he sat in his armchair again, facing Sherlock. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Go ahead," he said with a nod.

"You have questions," Sherlock stated plainly, like he had in the cab on the way to the lady in pink's crime scene.

"Yes, but that would be me talking."

"Not while I'm answering them."

John met Sherlock's gaze, which was unwavering, worse than it had been at Angelo's. He didn't even know where to begin, he has so many questions. He tried to sort through them all, to pick one to ask first, but his thoughts wouldn't organize into comprehendible sentences.

"What did Mycroft say?" Sherlock asked when John didn't come up with anything.

John had almost forgotten that Mycroft had called, what, with all that had happened since. Almost. "He told me he knew you told me how you felt. About me," John replied, his voice a bit unsteady, remembering he said he wouldn't change it to "appear normal." He would let Sherlock know. "He said you didn't love easily, but when you did, you did so completely."

"Do you believe him?"

John hesitated. "Yes."

"Twice," Sherlock said, as if asked a question. "When I was in high school, the first time. He was my lab partner. Very bright, but straight," he continued, and John understood. "Then when I was in Uni. She was a year above me, but wanted more than I could give her."

John let that sink in, his head spinning as Sherlock continued to stare at him. "That was… romantically then, yeah?" he asked, trying to imagine, with little success, Sherlock going on dates.

"Yes."

"And…?" John pressed, not sure if he really wanted to know the answer to the question he was asking. He still didn't know which answer he would prefer to hear.

"Once. It was his first time was well. It was very awkward and not at all precise, and I've only felt it fleetingly, more off than on, since."

John stared. He had been almost certain Sherlock was a virgin, would have bet money on it. Apparently he would have lost money, too. It was weird to hear Sherlock talk about sex, as if it were supposed to be perfect right off from the beginning. So. Sherlock wasn't a virgin, had only been in love twice, and felt little to no desire to shag anyone almost ever. John knew he was going to ask, knew he wanted to know, but didn't know why it was so important, or how to ask.

It must have shown on his face, however, because Sherlock nodded. "Yes," he said again, looking John up and down once, not slowly, but not quickly either. "Yes, I am sexually attracted to you."

John's breath caught in his throat as he stared at Sherlock, trying to process the words he had just heard come out of his mouth. "I… You… Okay," John stammered, unable to keep his voice even if he wanted to. "Yeah, okay." Sherlock Holmes was attracted to him. Sexually. And romantically. Oh god.

"Too fast?" Sherlock asked, suddenly looking startled, like he was worried he might scare John off. "Too much?"

John shook his head, trying to reassure the other man. He had wanted to know, anyway. And now he did. "I... No, just… Stop a minute." Sherlock nodded readily and watched John carefully as he tried to un-jumble his thoughts again. He had to close his eyes; it _was_ almost too much, too much to take in and process all at once. But Sherlock patiently let him sit there in the silence and figure it all out. John couldn't take the silence though, not knowing Sherlock was staring at him, waiting for him to say something else. "Can you explain the whole grey ace thing?" he asked, though he had mostly figured that part out already. It was just a little different, that was all. But either Sherlock understood, or he genuinely thought John needed to hear him explain it, because he explained it as if he were reading it out of a text book before going on to tell what it was like for him personally. John thought as he listened to Sherlock's deep voice fill the silence, letting him concentrate. But _bloody hell,_ that voice. "Right, okay, sorry. On the other hand, stop talking." Sherlock did so immediately, though John didn't think he completely understood why he wanted him to stop. "Thank you," he said quietly, his eyes still closed.

"John?" Sherlock asked hesitantly after a minute or so, and it was such an odd expression to hear in his voice. "Would you open your eyes?" He sounded so tentative, almost worried, and John sighed softly and nodded before complying. "What else?" he asked. "Think out loud; it helps."

John looked at Sherlock and actually laughed. "It helps, my arse," he chuckled, smiling at the man before him. "You just can't stand not knowing, Mr. I Don't Talk For Days."

Sherlock stared at him as if he had gone crazy for a minute, and maybe he had, but then Sherlock smiled back. "So tell me, then," he said, not pointing out that it _did_ help for some people.

"Why did you tense like that when I kissed your forehead?" John asked quietly instead, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. It was easier.

"Why did you kiss me?"

"I asked you first."

"You aren't a child anymore," Sherlock scolded, as if he were a child, then he sighed when John made no reply. "I wasn't expecting it," he responded honestly. "You caught me off guard."

"Because I wanted to."

"That isn't an answer, and don't you dare try to tell me it is, like a five year old."

John raised an eyebrow at the ceiling, still not looking at Sherlock. "And your answer was very enlightening." But even John had to admit it was better than his. Sherlock sighed frustratedly, as if he already regretted having started this conversation.

"It was honest," he said after a short pause.

"So was mine," John countered quietly, suddenly struck by how true of a statement it actually was.

Sherlock didn't reply for a long time. Eventually, John had to look at him again and found him staring curiously still, but he also looked torn. "I didn't want you to kiss me until you had thought about it, made up your mind. I didn't want a pity kiss, or a promise you might still decide to walk out on."

John couldn't bring himself to say anything for a minute or so, could only stare at Sherlock. He had never seen this part of Sherlock before, without any barriers. He was baring his soul to John, and Mycroft's last words to him rand through his head again. '_Do try not to hurt him._'John let out a slow, not altogether steady breath and nodded, closing his eyes momentarily to rearrange his thoughts. "I think my mind was made up long before you even told me," he whispered, opening his eyes again to look at the man sitting across from him. His partner? His boyfriend? His lover? Certainly someone who didn't look as happy as John had expected he would.

"John, you have to understand what you are agreeing to," he said slowly, looking at John evenly.

John rolled his eyes in spite of himself. "I've dated people before, Sherlock," he pointed out, but Sherlock shook his head.

"Not like me."

"No, not like you," John agreed softly, starting to grow nervous at Sherlock's tone of voice. "I wasn't aware there were other people like you." It had been meant to diffuse the tension, and John said it with a small smile, but Sherlock still looked very serious, if anything a little nervous himself.

"Exactly," he said, not taking his eyes off of John. "You know how I am. I will want to know everything, do everything. I will ask you seemingly random questions, completely serious, out of nowhere because they pop into my head and I will need to _know._ Sometimes I won't let go of you, and other times I won't touch you all day. I will push you, and you might not always feel comfortable because of it, so you have to _tell_ me. Do you understand?"

Sherlock looked the closest to scared John had ever seen him, except for maybe at Baskerville, and to think that he was afraid John would change his mind, that he was scared John would leave him, made John want to kiss him again. He just nodded though, smiling a little to reassure Sherlock and letting out a deep breath. "I understand," he replied seriously, and Sherlock looked surprised. "I've always known you were a handful, Sherlock. Really, I _get_ it. It's just going to be… different now."

"That's a yes," he said slowly, questioningly, as if trying to comprehend that John actually understood, let alone agreed.

John nodded again. "Yes." He watched as all of that connected in Sherlock's head. He looked at John with and expression of astonished joy and stood, walking the three or so steps over to John and leaning down to kiss him soundly. John's eyes widened fractionally in surprise before he relaxed, closing his eyes and surrendering into the kiss. It was gentle, as if Sherlock didn't want to push him just yet, but so desperate, so needy at the same time, and when Sherlock pulled back, John's head was spinning. "Wow," he breathed, unable to string words into proper sentences as he blinked up at Sherlock, who was looking at him with self-satisfaction, but also as if he were unsure of himself.

"You need to tell me," Sherlock said again, and for a second John didn't know what he meant.

But then it clicked, and John stood too and pressed a brief kiss to Sherlock's lips, standing on his tip toes to do so. "Eight," he said, smiling.

Sherlock just looked confused. "No, John, that was two," he corrected hesitantly, looking at John funny.

"Out of ten. I'd give that an eight," John explained, smiling still, watching Sherlock's expression change, and then he looked almost offended.

"Well then, please, do tell me how I can improve my technique," he replied, his voice low. "Do tell me, John," he murmured before pressing their lips together again. By the fourth kiss, they were both at a ten.


	6. Chapter 6

**Exploring Sexuality**

**A/N:** I finished Huck Finn for school and wrote a rough draft of my essay yesterday, so I'm feeling very accomplished- sorry this is a little later than usual because of it.

**Ch. 6**

They fell asleep in Sherlock's bed that night, but they hadn't had sex. John said he couldn't go _that_ fast. They both slept in their briefs though, and Sherlock's chest was a surprisingly pleasant warmth against his back in the morning. Sherlock was tapping Morse Code against his hip:

…_no cases, because you yourself are a case, one I don't think I will ever truly solve. _He hesitated. _You're awake now. Turn around, John. Tell me it's real._

"But I'm so comfortable," John mumbled sleepily before his eyes snapped open. "Sherlock!" he exclaimed, feeling the man tense beside him as he tried to disentangle their legs and get out of bed. "I have to work!" He obviously didn't have an alarm in Sherlock's room.

Reluctantly, Sherlock let him go, getting up after him and grabbing John's hips, turning him so they were face to face. "You didn't tell me," he said, and he looked genuinely worried in a way that broke John's heart.

He placed a gentle kiss to Sherlock's cheek, reassuring. "It's real," he promised, smiling a little. "But so is time, and I'm going to be late," he added, carefully pulling out of Sherlock's arms and moving to get ready.

Sherlock nodded and took his bathrobe off the back of a chair, pulling it on for warmth, seeing as he was no longer sharing John's. "I'll make breakfast; you shower," he offered, heading into the kitchen as John bustled about and got a change of clothes. He suspected their whole situation hadn't quite settled into John's head yet this morning.

"If you cook, you have to eat, too," John called before closing the bathroom door to take a quick shower. He had a feeling Sherlock would cook more often if he hadn't made that a general rule; he was actually quite good.

He was thinking that over when it hit him. He was dating Sherlock Holmes. He had kissed him. John was in a relationship with another bloke. He wasn't straight.

John's breath got short as everything he and Sherlock had done, everything they had said to each other in the past month or so, since the teenage boy was murdered, ran through his head. And then he felt terrible, because he and Sherlock were together because some poor kid had been killed. "Oh god," John gasped, trying to calm himself down and take deep, slow breaths. He curled into a ball on the floor of the shower, soap still in his hair, clutching his chest.

Then he heard a knock on the door and inhaled sharply as it startled him. "John?" Sherlock called tentatively from outside in the hall. "John, deep breaths," he said when John didn't respond, and his voice sounded so soft, so reassuring. Just like it was supposed to when someone was having a panic attack. Or an existential life crisis. "John, it's okay. It will pass. Deep breaths, in and out."

John listened to Sherlock, told himself that he was right, that it wasn't his fault the kid had been killed. They saved Brett, and Khyle, and the hate group was in Lestrade's hands. It would be stopped. People like Harry would be safe. People like him. Like Sherlock. Like he and Sherlock were to each other. "Oh god," he repeated, taking in a deep breath and holding it a couple of seconds before letting it out again, slowly calming down. He pulled himself up and out of his little protective ball, rinsing the rest of the soap out of his hair with water that was now cold. Sherlock's reassuring voice stopped as John turned the water off, wrapping a towel around his waist. He heard ruffling outside the door and a quiet sigh, and he assumed Sherlock had let him be again. John dried and dressed himself quickly, combing his hair to make it look presentable as he remembered he was already late and had to get to work still. Sherlock had an omelet and a cup of tea ready for him when he walked into the kitchen, which made him smile a little. "Thank you," he said sincerely, looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, eating a piece of toast himself and watching John carefully as he ate quickly. "Are you okay?" he asked after a while.

John let out a sigh but nodded. "I think so," he said, looking up at Sherlock with a small, reassuring smile. "Breakfast is good," he added. "Thank you." Sherlock nodded again, though he looked rather tense. John let out another sigh as he finished eating, hastily dumping his plate and mug in the sink. "I didn't change my mind or anything. It just all caught up with me," he assured, touching the bandage by Sherlock's temple lightly. "Don't take that off; it has to heal. I'll be back around five, alright?"

"What would you do if I said no?" Sherlock asked, curiosity mixing with sincerity in his voice.

"Probably sigh and tell you to clean the kitchen while I'm gone."

"Wrong," Sherlock said, setting his toast on the plate beside him and pulling John close to him in a long kiss. "I'll see you at five," he said, releasing John and gently pushing him towards the door. "Don't be late."

John's head was spinning again from the kiss as he left the flat, pulling on his ruined jacket as he hailed a cab. He didn't know if Sherlock meant don't be late for work, or coming home, and he let it go as a lost cause, because he was late for work anyway. He would have to remember to buy a new coat.

After around two thirty, things started to slow down, and by five, John was ready to go home, everything still weighing a bit heavily on him. He had done the shopping yesterday, so he didn't need to stop anywhere. A new coat could wait. At exactly 5:01 his mobile buzzed.

_You're late. SH_

_I'm in a cab. JW_

_You're still late. SH_

_I did say around five. JW_

John didn't get a reply after that, and when he got back to Baker Street a few minutes later, he found Sherlock actually cleaning the kitchen, and he smiled a little. He hung his jacket up and felt slim arms wrap around his waist, making him jump, but holding him close. "I might accidently punch you if you make a habit of sneaking up on me like that," John warned, turning himself around in Sherlock's arms to find the taller man shaking his head.

"It was a test," Sherlock explained, his hands roaming over John's back, crumpling in his sweater. "If you were going to punch me reflexively you would have done it just now. You will only get used to it."

"I am glad you're so sure, but if you startle me and I punch you, I can henceforth not be blamed, because I warned you," John replied, resting his hands on Sherlock's hips, placing a small kiss to Sherlock's collarbone before looking up at him curiously. "Are you alright?" he asked. "I was only at work."

"But I can finally do _this_," Sherlock protested, pressing a lengthy kiss to John's lips, his hands still running over any part of John he could reach, before pulling back. "And you were gone all day."

"Finally?" John asked when he got his breath back, wondering how Sherlock could manage to take it away without fail every time they kissed. He only protested a tiny bit as Sherlock pulled his jumper over his head.

"Finally," Sherlock agreed, carefully leading John backwards until his knees hit the couch. He had to apply just the smallest bit of pressure to John's shoulders to get him to sit down, then he straddled John's lap and kidded him again, his hands cupping John's cheeks.

John laughed a little breathlessly when he pulled back, putting his hands on Sherlock's still bare chest to keep him there a minute. He hadn't bothered to get dressed, so he was still in his briefs and bathrobe, which had fallen open at some point in the day. "For how long?" he asked quietly, looking up at Sherlock.

"Too long," Sherlock mumbled against his jaw, where he was placing a trail of kisses, as if he could literally kiss every inch of John's skin.

"Seriously," John murmured. "Tell me; I want to know."

Sherlock huffed a half-hearted sigh against John's neck and saved the little giggle that escaped his lips in response for a future time. "Sexually, almost since we met," he replied, looking down at John. "Romantically, since the pool. Maybe a bit beforehand." Lithe fingers traced along John's cheekbones, his jaw, the curve of his nose and lips, turned up in a smile.

"You're memorizing me," John accused softly, his own fingers interlocked at the small of Sherlock's back.

Sherlock nodded, keeping his eyes locked with John's as his fingers cataloged everything. "I want to memorize _all_ of you," he murmured quietly, his fingers finding the chain of John's dog tags. He followed the chain to where it went under John's undershirt, looking at him with the question in his eyes. John nodded, if a bit hesitantly, watching Sherlock curiously as he pulled the dog tags out and read the basic information printed on them before letting them drop back below the hem of John's undershirt again.

"Do you have something against clothes?" John asked curiously, looking Sherlock up and down with a smile, running his hands up and down Sherlock's sides. His smile grew as Sherlock squirmed and laughed, but it quickly went away as Sherlock grabbed his wrists, holding his hands in place just over his ribs.

"Don't," he warned, and his voice was completely serious, even a little hostile, so at odds with the laugh he had let out seconds ago.

John's nodded, letting his hands relax submissively in Sherlock's grip. "Don't like being tickled; sensitive sides. Okay," he stated plainly so Sherlock would know he understood. "I won't."

Sherlock stared at him, not letting go of his wrists, but also not holding them as tightly anymore. Then he shook his head, letting go and pressing a tender kiss to John's forehead. "I don't deserve you," he mumbled against John's skin, hands resting on his shoulders.

John's brow furrowed in confusion, then his eyes widened in understanding a second later. He gently pushed Sherlock back, taking his face in is hands and kissing him thoroughly. His fingers curled in Sherlock's hair, and he kissed him in a way that he had yet to instigate a kiss, feeling Sherlock relax into him. Both of their breathing was a bit labored when they broke the kiss, and John took his dog tags off for the first time in years, putting them over Sherlock's head instead.

"John…" Sherlock protested confusedly, moving to take them off, but John shook his head, cutting him off.

"You keep them for now," he insisted quietly. "For the war you're raging inside yourself."

Sherlock continued to stare at him in disbelief, eventually composing himself enough to speak again. "And the war inside you?" he asked.

"I won this morning," John assured him, kissing his lips briefly. "Keep them, and know that I think you are quite worthy of me."

Sherlock was still looking at him in an awed sort of wonder, and he closed his hand in a fist over the dog tags now around his neck. "This is what I meant," he said, shaking his head slightly. "But thank you."

John smiled a warm smile, knowing a sincere thank you like that from Sherlock Holmes was no small thing. "You're welcome."

Sherlock smiled a little, kissing John gratefully. He traced light lines over John's chest, down his arms, mapping out muscles and the general shape of him, even outlining the bandage still on his arm. They didn't say anything else for a long while, and John sat there and watched Sherlock as he memorized him, letting his mind wander.

Sherlock truly believed he didn't deserve someone as plain as John, John could see it in his face when he had said it. All those taunts from Anderson and Sally must have caught up with him at some point. Or maybe it was before that? While he was at Uni? _"We all hated him."_ He remembered Sebastian saying that, remembered thinking how he had thought it was a rather rude thing to say. Especially so because he seemed to mean it.

But John truly believed that, while he was quite the handful most, if not all of the time, Sherlock really was a great man. And John hoped he could get him to see that he was a good one, too.


	7. Chapter 7

**Exploring Sexuality**

**A/N: **Okay, so I've gotten to the point in this fic (this tends to happen frequently) where I'm not entirely sure where I want the plot to go, so just a heads up that it might take a little longer for me to spin chapters out at you :)

**Ch. 7**

John insisted they come out almost formally, even though Sherlock argued that most of the Yard already thought they were together anyway and "couldn't be _that_ dense" as to not notice the change between them. They were police men and detectives, after all. But eventually he gave in, and within the next couple of days, everyone that worked in the Yard got a text that read: _"We're together. Now get over it. SH & JW" _John had been given absolutely no say in that, and was apologizing to people for the next week. They had Harry over for dinner and she told them she was glad they were happy together and hugged John tightly. She said she was sober again, but Sherlock later said she had lied. John hadn't needed Sherlock to tell him.

When they were in public, Sherlock almost never let go of his hand, the only exception being when they were at a crime scene. Sometimes even then he didn't let go. It had taken John a day or two to get used to that, because he wouldn't have pegged Sherlock to be a hand-holder. But he held his hand so tightly most of the time, John knew it was more of a reassurance that he was still there than a romantic gesture, and that only made it romantic in a different way.

They had been together for almost a week and a half and had fallen into an easy sort of routine. Sherlock had yet to wake up after John, even when he had been on a case the days before, though it probably helped that he had fallen asleep around three in the afternoon beforehand. John usually woke to find Sherlock tapping Morse Code messages against his skin, or just sitting beside him on his laptop, and was therefore mildly confused when he woke up to an empty bed Thursday morning. He had to work, so he showered normally and found Sherlock starring at the ceiling on the couch when he got out. He had John's dog tags in his hand. He hadn't taken them off since John had given them to him.

"Good morning," he greeted, placing a kiss to Sherlock's forehead and frowning a little when he tensed. "What is it?"

"Remember when you told me you understood?" Sherlock asked, looking at up at John like he was lost, and only John could find him.

John nodded, because he did remember, every word. "I remember," he confirmed, playing back what Sherlock had told him in his head until it clicked. It was a no touching day. "Yeah, I remember," he repeated.

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes, letting out an almost relieved sigh. "Good," was all he said though, and John made toast and jam for breakfast. He made Sherlock a cup of tea too, setting it on the coffee table beside the man before he left. He received a mumbled thank you as he walked out the door, pulling on the new coat he had gotten to replace the one that now had a tear in the arm.

"I will see you when I get out," he called, which didn't elicit a response, but he hadn't really expected it to. Just as he was paying the cabby, about to go into work, he got a text, and quickly checked it as he walked in. John typed his reply hastily before turning his mobile on silent.

_I really don't deserve you. SH_

_You deserve better. JW_

When John's shift ended, he bade goodbye to his coworkers and was about to hail a cab when someone else's hand slipped into his, squeezing tight. John turned and looked up in mild surprise to see Sherlock standing next to him, face blank.

"You didn't respond," Sherlock said, his voice almost as tight as his grip on John's hand.

"Sherlock, I was at work," John said a bit exasperatedly, sighing. "I couldn't look at my phone." They had had this conversation multiple times.

"Then don't send stupid texts like that before you go to work," Sherlock grumbled, causing John to raise an eyebrow at him. That was new.

When Sherlock didn't say anything else, but continued to lead them somewhere in the opposite direction of Baker Street, John squeezed the other man's hand reassuringly. "Talk aloud; it helps you think," he teased slightly, his voice soft.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed out what could have been a half-hearted chuckle, but his voice was serious. "Look at them."

John sighed. Sherlock hated repeating himself, apparently even if he had only sent it in a text before. So John took out his mobile. **[22 new messages]** He looked up at Sherlock in surprise, but he wasn't looking at John, instead staring straight ahead as they walked. John hit **OK **and scrolled through them.

_What is that supposed to mean? SH_

_You are more than I deserve. SH_

_So much more. SH_

_You're just naturally good. SH_

_You've always put up with me for some reason. SH_

_I don't know how. SH_

_You amaze me, John. SH_

_That was a compliment. SH_

_Most people say 'thank you' when complimented. SH_

_Not that you're most people. SH_

_You're not completely stupid. SH_

_(Also a compliment.) SH_

_You understand. SH_

_You're patient. SH_

_John? SH_

_Have I offended you? SH_

_You think I'm annoying. SH_

_Just like everyone else. SH_

_Okay. SH_

_I'm going to come find you. Ignore these. SH_

John sighed a little. Sherlock doesn't like it when he doesn't respond, never has. "You are annoying," John agreed, putting his mobile back in his pocket. Sherlock's steps faltered just a little beside him. "Sometimes. Especially when you're being stupid, because you're so bloody brilliant the rest of the time. You're definition of annoying doesn't line up with everybody else's though, I think, so you don't always realize it. But, Sherlock," he said, looking back up at him, though he was still not looking at John. "I don't mind. Do you think I would have agree to getting your mobile out of the jacket you were currently wearing if I minded that much? That is a tad ridiculous, by the way, but if you asked me to again tomorrow, I'd do it."

Sherlock sighed agitatedly, as if that wasn't the answer he wanted. "But _why?"_ he asked.

John shrugged, a small smile on his face. "Because _I don't mind_. You're busy curing cancer and what not, while I'm not doing anything important, so if you're that preoccupied, I might as well help, yeah?"

"I'm not curing cancer, John," Sherlock protested, despite that not being a relevant point.

John sighed, shrugging again. "You might as well be, for how important it is to you."

Sherlock shook his head. "So you'd do whatever I asked, merely because it's important to me?" he asked incredulously. It occurred to John that that was probably a foreign concept to him. But Molly did it too.

"More or less."

"I don't understand."

"I know," John sighed, trying to think of a way to explain it to Sherlock so that it would make sense. "Right, okay. So if Sally asked me to get her phone out of the jacket she were wearing, I would probably laugh a bit and tell her to get it herself, because she doesn't focus on things like you do. It may have been important to her, but I knew if I didn't get it for her, she would eventually get it herself. You don't. You will sit there for hours with your hand out, waiting, important that you have your mobile then or not, because you're also focusing on something equally important."

"What if Donovan had been focusing on something equally important?" Sherlock pressed, still not really understanding.

John looked up at Sherlock and shrugged, sighing again. "She's not you."

Sherlock didn't' respond to that for a long time. He just held John's hand tightly and led them through the streets of London. "Why does that matter?" he asked eventually, and John rolled his eyes.

"Because I _fancy_ you, you daft git," he exclaimed, shaking his head like Sherlock did when they were being particularly thick.

"I don't understand that either," Sherlock responded exasperatedly. "Why? Why do you care when no one else does?"

John hesitated, a bit taken aback by the emotion in Sherlock's voice. "Because I see the man past all your snark and theatrics. And he is a good man," he said eventually, his voice soft. "Lestrade sees him too. So does Mrs. Hudson and Molly. They care."

Sherlock's hand seemed to go almost subconsciously to where John's dog tags were under his coat and shirt. "Tell me."

John smiled a bit and nodded. "You are incredibly intelligent. You do not give in, or give up on something you believe in. You do what you think is right. You don't care what other people say. You never leave anything unfinished."

"But…?"

John squeezed Sherlock's hand. "You hide behind sarcasm and casual insults. You have a bit of a god complex. Your social skills can be questionable."

"Why do you put up with me then?" Sherlock pressed.

"Because I fancy you," John repeated, rolling his eyes. "Weren't you listening?"

"I was," Sherlock assured, squeezing John's hand tighter. "I merely wanted to hear you say it again."

John felt a faint blush rise to his cheeks, but he smiled. "Good; then you'll know you do deserve me, deserve better, really."

"There isn't a "better," John, don't be ridiculous. That was what I was trying to say earlier," Sherlock said in a tone that John generally referred to as his 'don't be an idiot' tone.

"Well, thank you, then," John responded, feeling his blush increase slightly and willing it to fade. Sherlock just smiled a bit as way of reply, and after a couple of minutes, John grew curious. "Where are we going?" he asked.

Sherlock's smile widened, if a bit mischievously. "You'll see," he said, making John raise an eyebrow. "It's a surprise."


	8. Chapter 8

**Exploring Sexuality**

**A/N: **So sorry this took so long to update! I got stuck (plus I was actually kind of busy the past two days, shocker) and then was going to finish it last night, but fell asleep writing it…. Hope you enjoy this chapter, though :)

**Warnings:** Mentions of suicidal thoughts and substance abuse. If that's triggering for you, please don't read. It is relatively mild, however if you do chose to go ahead. (The substance abuse is really just implied, but I felt the need to add it to the warning..)

Also, sexy times are coming up ;)

**Ch. 8**

They had walked about half an hour as they talked, and passed another ten in a comfortable silence. "Are you going to tell me where we are going yet?" John asked for the second time, looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock glared at John, though it wasn't sincere. "If I told you before we got there, would it still be a surprise?" he asked rhetorically.

John sighed and rolled his eyes, Sherlock's hand still tight in his. "What if I guess?"

"You are such a child."

Not actually an answer, so John smiled. "Are you taking me out to dinner? Because that would be lovely."

"No."

"I think it would; most people do eat a semi-regular three meals a day, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Most people are boring, stupid. We're almost there."

So they walked in silence again for a couple more minutes, and Sherlock stopped them in the middle of Blackfriar's Bridge, over the Thames. "What are we-?" John started, but Sherlock shook his head.

"Listen, because you need to know this, and if I don't say it now, I may never tell you," he said urgently, to which John just nodded, letting him get whatever it was off his chest. Sherlock took a deep breath. "Before I met Lestrade, I was in a bad place. He pulled me out of it, with Mycroft's prompting, and gave me cases, gave me work to do, something to focus on. I came here a lot at night, when I couldn't sleep and needed to think, I was still doing that when I met you, though not as often. I was clean by then, had been for a couple months." Here he took another breath, looking out at the water and away from John. "You amazed me, John. You weren't normal, or boing. You gave my mind something to do as I tried to figure you out. You always put up with me, very rarely getting frustrated, and when you did it was mild compared to what I've dealt with before. I stopped coming here at night. You helped me through in a way Lestrade never could. You kept my feet on the bridge." When he finished, his voice was so quiet, John could barely hear him. Sherlock risked a glance at John's face, and knew he had been right to tell him.

John forgot that it was a no touching day and pulled Sherlock against him, hugging him tightly. Sherlock was tense at first, but slowly relaxed, wrapping his arms around John in return. "Does this mean you won your war?" John mumbled into his shoulder.

"No," Sherlock replied, shaking his head and breathing in John's familiar scent. "Just this battle."

John nodded and pulled back to look at Sherlock, interlocking their fingers and squeezing his hand tight as all of what he had just been told sank into his mind. "Can I ask you a question?" he asked quietly, not sure how far Sherlock was willing to take this conversation. But the other man nodded silently, looking intently down at John. "How long did you know Greg before you met me?"

"Almost two years," Sherlock replied instantly, as if he had read John's mind and knew what he was going to ask.

John's breath escaped him in a puffed out sigh. For almost two years Sherlock had contemplated stepping off this bridge. And then John had kept him from doing it. He closed his eyes and felt Sherlock's hand leave his own, only for both of them to cup John's face.

"Thank you," he breathed, pressing his lips to John's forehead in a lingering kiss. "What else?" Sherlock whispered. "What else do you want to know?"

"Can I kiss you?" John asked, staring up at Sherlock, still in a bit of shock. But again, Sherlock nodded silently, and John reached up on his toes to kiss Sherlock firmly, not caring who saw or if they stared. "I thought it was a no touch day?" he asked when he pulled back.

Sherlock shrugged, smiling a tiny bit. "I got over it. While you were at work. It'll come and go," he explained.

"In that case," John mumbled, kissing Sherlock again. He frowned a bit when the other man gently pushed him back. "What?" he asked softly, his brow scrunching in confusion and concern.

"Just… slow."

John nodded and pressed a light, closed-mouth kiss to Sherlock's lips, smiling a little when he pulled back this time. "It's okay," he assured.

Sherlock had a small smile on his face as he looked down at John. "I know it is," he replied honestly. With John everything was okay. "Do you still want me to take you out to dinner?"

John smiled, nodding, and dropped his hands from Sherlock's hips to take his hand again. "That would be nice, yeah," he agreed. "You should eat too."

Sherlock shrugged, holding John's hand tightly. "I ate yesterday."

"I ate this morning," John pointed out.

Sherlock huffed, turning them onto a different street, but not gracing John with a response, only squeezing his hand.

"How long were you in a bad place?" John asked quietly as they walked.

Sherlock seemed to think about it, his pace not slowing. "Since a couple months after I graduated from Uni."

John nodded, then decided he didn't want to think about it, looking around them instead. There weren't too many people on the streets, and some stared, but after having the limp for a while and chasing Sherlock around London after, he had long stopped caring what random strangers thought. Sherlock walked beside him in silence, presumably taking them to a restaurant around here.

A block or two from the bridge, Sherlock opened the door to a very fancy looking restaurant for him, making John raise an eyebrow. "You do realize neither of us are actually dressed to go to some place like this, yeah?" he asked as Sherlock ushered him in.

"But the food is amazing, and I saved the owner's sister's life," Sherlock replied nonchalantly.

John rolled his eyes and asked the obvious question; "And how did you do that?"

"Two, please," Sherlock told the man in front, who looked sort of skeptical about letting them in. "For Holmes. Send my apologies to Vincent for not making a reservation in advance," Sherlock added, to which the man nodded and promptly lead them to a little table out of the way of the general crowd. "Thank you." John looked at Sherlock expectantly, but the other man shook his head and tapped his menu. "Pick something first; Mycroft will pay," he assured.

"Will he, now?" John asked amusedly, opening the menu and looking it over.

"Yes, I think he will," Sherlock agreed, scanning the menu quickly, then putting it down to look at John like he had at Angelo's almost two weeks ago.

John let him stare for a minute or so before looking up to meet his gaze. "I cannot concentrate if you are mentally undressing me," he scolded, to which he earned an uncharacteristic blush from Sherlock as he looked down. John smiled a little and looked back down at his own menu, though he couldn't concentrate much better knowing Sherlock _had_ been mentally undressing him. He had just been joking. And then that blush. Oh god.

John felt Sherlock kick him from under the table and looked up in surprise to see a waiter there, looking at him expectantly. "Right, sorry… Um, I'll have the braised pork loin, please," he said, picking something he definitely remembered seeing on the menu. "Water is fine."

The waiter wrote their order down and took their menus back, assuring them that their food would be out shortly.

"I did stop staring," Sherlock said once the waiter left, and John kicked him in return. "Do you still want to know?"

John tried to come up with what he had wanted to know, what Sherlock would be talking about, but he couldn't clear his head properly. "Know what?" he ended up asking.

"How I saved Vincent's sister's life," Sherlock replied calmly, watching him with some amusement.

"Oh, yes, of course," John agreed, nodding. He could focus on that, and not all the dirty thoughts that were now running through his head.

So Sherlock explained how he had been on a case only a couple months before he had met John. He listed all the details and the facts and the minor complications, including how he solved them, but John heard close to none of it. He heard the deep rumble of Sherlock's voice, but he couldn't bring himself to really concentrate on what the other was saying. He kept seeing that blush on Sherlock's cheeks in his head.

Sherlock tapped John's foot with his own, not really a kick like before, just something to get his attention. "You aren't listening," Sherlock accused, watching John curiously.

John jumped a little when Sherlock nudged him, and he blinked a couple of times, looking at Sherlock. "Not really, no, sorry," he admitted, looking down at his glass and feeling a faint blush tinge his own cheeks, feeling Sherlock's eyes on him.

Sherlock stared silently at John for what felt like a very long while, thought it couldn't have been more than three minutes, at most. "John?" he asked, waiting until John looked up to continue. "I want to fuck you when we get home," he said, his voice quiet and level, his gaze intent on John's face.

John was pretty sure his mouth had dropped as he stared at Sherlock, wide-eyed. "I've never…." He stammered, trailing off.

"That's okay." Better, really, Sherlock thought to himself. "I can teach you."

John scoffed and looked almost offended, but also rather timid, as he rolled his eyes. "You don't have to _teach_ me," he retorted. "I know how it works. I've just never…" he trailed off again.

"Been with a man," Sherlock supplied helpfully, to which John nodded mutely. "I'll go slow," he promised. "We… we don't have to tonight, I just thought…"

"No, you were right," John assured, clearing his throat. As usual. "You were right, I just… wasn't expecting to hear it come out of your mouth. I want to."

Now Sherlock stared at John, a small smile on his lips. "Tonight?" he asked, mainly to assure that John knew what he was agreeing to.

But John nodded, holding Sherlock's gaze. "Tonight," he repeated, his head spinning a bit.

Sherlock seemed to sense John's uneasiness and sighed a little. "We do not have to," he assured, to which John shook his head again.

"I want to," John insisted, and though he was a little hesitant, it was completely true. He wanted to share that experience with Sherlock, wanted to be with him that way.

Sherlock nodded, not one to ask twice. "Okay," he said, smiling reassuringly at John, wanting to make sure he felt comfortable, not wanting to push. He needed to know. It had been a long time since he was so attracted to someone in such a way, and he felt weak for not being able to control his own body's urges, but he also knew John would understand. John always understood.

Their food arrived a couple minutes later, and as Sherlock had said, it was amazing. And expensive. Sherlock paid with Mycroft's credit card.

"Why do you even have that?" John asked as they left, Sherlock's hand tight in his own.

"For emergencies," Sherlock replied casually, a devilish smile on his face as he shrugged. "You are always telling me food is so important, so I am sure my dear brother will be happy to pay the bill."

John shook his head with a disapproving chuckle. "I am sure he will be delighted," he agreed, squeezing Sherlock's hand as he hailed a cab. Sherlock gave the driver their address as John slipped in beside him, their hands still connected. "This was a date," John said with a smile, looking at Sherlock. "A real one."

"It's not over yet," Sherlock reminded him with a small smile of his own. Sherlock smiled more often now, John had noticed, and he liked it.

"No, it is not," John agreed, butterflies in his stomach like he was a teenager. He was going to go home and have sex with Sherlock. Sherlock was going to top him. And John wanted him to.

The cab ride was relatively short, and they passed most of it in a comfortable silence. Sherlock paid the cabby this time before leading John back into their flat. He took off his coat, then looked at John. "Stay here," he instructed.

John raised a skeptical eyebrow but nodded, taking his own jacket off. "Alright," he agreed, watching Sherlock dash into his room. He heard what must have been Sherlock trying to tidy up a bit, then silence for a while before the man came back out, smiling and holding his hand out to John.

"Come here," he said, taking John's hand and walking him half way down the short hallway to his room. "Now close your eyes."

John looked at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow before complying, feeling Sherlock's hands cover his eyes once they were closed. "I wasn't peaking," he felt compelled to defend himself.

"I don't care," came the reply as he was slowly led the rest of the way down the hall and turned into Sherlock's room. He heard Sherlock close the door behind them and his hands dropped from John's eyes to his hips. "Open your eyes."

**A/N:** Again, sorry this took so long to get up. Evil cliff-hanger hehehe

On the up side, the next chapter should come out relatively at the normal speed again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Exploring Sexuality**

**A/N: **People are reading this from countries I don't even think I knew existed, so thank you all for the feedback. Also, if you've reviewed you'll have noticed I always try to reply, so if you don't want me to, feel free to let me know (I know a couple of you review for each chapter, and that's wonderful, but if I'm annoying you please let me know :)) When I reply, it probably sounds really generic and boring, but trust me, inside I'm like flipping out and I probably jumped around my room for a minute, smiling ridiculously, so the thanks is genuine xxx

Also, I guess the rating is for language now too, if any of you care…

**Ch. 9**

Before they had started dating, John had been in Sherlock's room only a very small handful of times. It was either a complete disaster, or neater than a hospital room; there was no in between. Since they had started dating, however, it was usually more on the neat side, and John was half-way moved into his closet. They had moved some of Sherlock's less frequently used disguises upstairs in his room to make space.

Sherlock's breath ghosted across John's neck and into his ear, and he almost didn't open his eyes just to get him to do it again. But when he opened his eyes, a smile split his face. There were exactly seven random lit candles scattered about the room, and what looked like shredded paper leading a trail on the floor from where John was standing to either side of Sherlock's bed. John didn't think Sherlock was even breathing behind him, so he turned around and kissed him gently. "It's wonderful," he assured, still smiling brightly. "Very you."

Sherlock blushed faintly and looked down at John. "We didn't have any roses or anything, so I had to improvise, and the candles don't match and they're very random, but…" he rambled self-consciously, which John thought was very endearing, if a bit uncharacteristic. "I wanted our first time to be special."

John smiled and leaned up to kiss Sherlock again. "It would be special just because it is us," he assured. "You don't have to worry; this is great."

Sherlock smiled a little under the praise, his blush slowly fading. John had gotten better at telling him everything without prompting. "There's one more thing," he said a bit hesitantly, taking John's hand and leading him over to the bed. On it was a piece of paper, which Sherlock handed to John. "I had it done the day I told you."

John took the piece of paper and looked at it curiously. It was Sherlock's test results; he was clean. "Yes," John said, reply to the unasked question, understanding without Sherlock having to say anything.

"You're a doctor, I assumed you'd get tested regularly and were clean," Sherlock explained, taking the results back as John handed them to him and putting them on the small dresser by the bed. "It's your first time. I want to do it right."

John nodded, looking at Sherlock. "I'm clean; no condoms," he agreed, spelling it out so Sherlock knew he understood. He didn't have time to say much more than that, though, because Sherlock pulled him into a kiss that made John's knees go weak. He felt Sherlock push him onto the bed, then all the air escaped his lungs as Sherlock toppled down on top of him, somehow managing not to break the kiss in the process. "You know, I'm pretty fond of breathing," he teased, fingers curling in Sherlock's hair as he pulled back.

"Boring," Sherlock deadpanned, propping himself up on his elbows before kissing John again, an arm on either side of John's head. They had long since broken the scale of ten, and this kiss was no exception. Sherlock rocked his hips against John's in a way that made John's eyes roll back and flutter closed.

When Sherlock's mouth left his own John let out a small sound of disappointment that barely made it passed his lips before being replaced with one of pleasure as Sherlock's lips moved down his neck. John's hands left Sherlock's hair to instead try to manage undoing the buttons of the man's shirt. "You and your stupid posh shirts," he mumbled, fingers faltering as he felt Sherlock's teeth scrape against his skin before biting down in what would surely leave a mark.

"Sit up," Sherlock instructed, getting up so he could do so and finishing the last couple buttons before pushing his shirt off his shoulders and dropping it to the floor. "Your turn," he added, tugging on the hem of John's jumper and pulling it over his head, doing the same with the shirt underneath it before throwing them both to the floor as well. His fingers hesitated over the dog tags around his neck, and John shook his head.

"Keep them on," he said, his breathing ragged as he kissed Sherlock's collarbone. "It's fine."

Sherlock nodded, smiling a bit before kissing John firmly again, his nails leaving lines on John's back. He was straddling John's lap, which put him at a head taller than John, even more than usual. He tilted John's head back so he was practically looking at the ceiling, were his eyes open, as they kissed, giving the kiss a different angle.

John nipped on Sherlock's bottom lip, but had very little and soon no control of the kiss. So his hands roamed Sherlock's chest, teasing fingers pinching one nipple, then the other, making Sherlock let out a string of lustful sounds into the kiss.

When Sherlock pulled back again, they were both breathing hard. "More buttons," he said with a grin, his hands sliding down John's back and around to his belt, which he unbuckled and pulled off smoothly. John did the same with Sherlock's, though it wasn't as graceful. Both belts joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor as Sherlock pressed his lips to John's again, deftly undoing the button and zip of his trousers before pushing him on his back again.

"Sherlock," John moaned as Sherlock pressed a hand to his crotch briefly, then standing in front of John and pulling both his trousers and pants off in one swift motion, taking John a bit by surprise. He could feel Sherlock's eyes move slowly down his body without even opening his own. John let him stare for a minute, blushing. Then he opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. "You too," he said, moving to help, but Sherlock pushed him back down on his back.

"Don't move," he said, and his voice was rough and low in a way John had never heard it. "God, you look so beautiful," Sherlock murmured, taking in every inch of John with his eyes before undoing his own trousers and kicking them, then after a small hesitation his pants too, off.

They were both blushing like teens, and when Sherlock crawled back on top of John, John hooked a leg behind Sherlock's, flipping them over in one smooth motion so that he was looking down at Sherlock. "You can stare, but I can't?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I…" Sherlock started, blinking up at John embarrassedly, but John cut him off with a gentle kiss.

"Don't be," he whispered, curling his fingers in Sherlock's hair with a small smile. "You are so goddamn sexy you don't even have a right to be shy," he mumbled, placing kisses along the other's jawline. John felt Sherlock's hands on his arse, and that was the only warning he got before Sherlock pulled him down so that their bodies were pressed flush together. "Ohh…" John moaned, feeling Sherlock hard beneath him.

"I think I have every right, thank you," Sherlock replied, pushing up against John and letting out a soft moan of his own. "I want you right now," he whispered low in John's ear. "I want to feel you around me, see your face when I enter you."

"God, Sherlock," John groaned, picture after picture popping up helpfully in his head as he looked down at the man under him.

Sherlock's eyes were so dark they were practically black, full of lust. He licked his lips, and John was lost before he even spoke. "Tell me," he panted, his hips sliding back and forth against John's.

"Take me," John said immediately. "I want you, want to feel you inside me. I want it," he told Sherlock wantonly. And then he was on his back again, Sherlock on top of him, kissing him so fiercely John's head spun and he couldn't think. "Bloody hell," he panted when Sherlock pulled back.

Any thoughts of asking if John was sure slipped out of Sherlock's head as he looked down at the man before him. "I'll go slow, okay? Tell me."

John nodded, swallowing thickly as nervousness pooled itself in the pit of his stomach, mixing with lust as he watched Sherlock get up again and reach into the small dresser by the bed. He returned a second later with a small bottle, popping the cap open and coating his fingers with the lube. His other hand ran soothingly up and down John's thigh, relaxing him.

"Spread your legs a little more for me, there you go," Sherlock murmured soothingly, kneeling in the space between John's legs as he looked down at John. "It will be cold," he warned. John nodded again, closing his eyes and waiting to feel Sherlock's fingers at his entrance. "Don't close your eyes," Sherlock whispered. "I want to see you, remember?"

John let out a shaky breath and opened his eyes, looking up at Sherlock. His voice was still rough with want, but it was also soft, helping John relax. "Okay," he sighed, nodding up at Sherlock and taking slow breaths, making his body relax. He knew it would be worse if he were tense. John took a sharp breath when he felt Sherlock's slim finger slowly circle his entrance; it was very cold. "You were right, very cold," he explained when Sherlock's hand faltered, urging him on with his eyes.

Sherlock smiled a bit in spite of himself, gently pushing against John's hole but not enough to enter him. "You have to relax," he murmured, his other hand still running up and down John's thigh. He teased John until he felt him relax enough, then slowly pushed inside him. "Oh," he breathed, feeling John's heat surround his finger, pulling him in further.

"Oh god," John moaned, pressing his head back into the bed, his breathing ragged as he looked up at Sherlock. Slowly he felt Sherlock start to move his finger in and out, and he had to close his eyes. It didn't hurt now, just felt very different from anything else he had ever felt. "Okay," he panted, nodding. Sherlock seemed to hesitate, and John peaked open his eyes just as Sherlock pushed the second finger in. "Oh, yeah, that, wow," John babbled, his eyes going wide at the sensation.

"Tell me," Sherlock said again, his voice unsteady.

John took a couple slow breaths, letting his body adjust. Sherlock didn't move above him, watching him closely, his eyes still very dark. "That hurts a little, but not bad, just uncomfortable really," John tried to explain, not actually wanting Sherlock to stop but still getting used to it. "Just slowly, yeah?" he said, his voice unsteady too.

Sherlock nodded and slowly started to move, preparing John, scissoring his fingers to stretch him. He watched as John's eyes closed again, and curled his fingers just so.

"Oh god!" John cried out as Sherlock hit his prostate. "Oh, yes…" he groaned, eyes shut tight. He couldn't help it. Sherlock carefully added a third finger before doing it again, making John squirm beneath him, his cock hard and leaking precum. "More, Sherlock, I want more," he practically begged.

"I don't want to hurt you," Sherlock said hesitantly, looking down at John. He continued to stretch him for at least another minute, despite John's protests and his own urges. "Okay, okay," he said a minute later, slowly pulling his fingers out of John, for which he earned a disapproving groan. He opened the lube bottle again and spread a generous amount over his dick with a hiss, his head falling back. He was close, they both were, but he wanted this to last. John opened his eyes to watch Sherlock shamelessly, blushing a bit however when Sherlock looked back down to him. "Put your knees up, so your feet are on the bed," Sherlock instructed, his breathing labored.

John nodded and did as he was told, watching Sherlock's face as he lined himself up. "Okay," he said with a nod, his head leaning back even further into the mattress as Sherlock very slowly pushed inside him. Both men let out low moans, breathing hard when Sherlock stopped, all the way in John's arse, to let John adjust. John took the time gratefully, wrapping his legs around Sherlock's hips. It hurt, but oh, it felt so good, too. Sherlock leaned over him and rested his forehead against John's, softly telling John how good he felt, how it was going to even better soon. "Okay," John repeated, interrupting Sherlock mid-sentence after a little while and pushing his hips back into Sherlock, causing both of them to moan again.

"Oh god, John," Sherlock murmured, pressing his lips together as he tentatively started to move, slowly pulling out before pushing back in. He soon found a comfortable pace, gradually speeding up as John adjusted and squirmed below him. Once he set a pace, he tried different angles, searching, searching..

"Fuck!" John nearly screamed as Sherlock's dick brushed against his prostate. "Sherlock, oh god, right there, yes, oh…" John mumbled, soon letting out a steady stream of garbled exclamations and profanities as Sherlock hit his prostate with each thrust.

Sherlock increased his pace, feeling heat pool in his stomach as he let out his own mumbled mess of words, trying to keep his eyes open, to watch John, whose eyes continuously fluttered open and closed. "I'm close, John, so close, oh god," he panted, taking John's cock in hand and pumping him in time with his thrusts. John's fingers clawed into his back as he came, repeating Sherlock's name over and over again. Sherlock followed soon after, hitting John's prostate with one last thrust as he came, his mouth dropping open in a silent 'O' before collapsing down on top of him.

"Ouff!" John exclaimed as the breath was yet again knocked out of him. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock," he mumbled, his head spinning. He hadn't had a climax like that in a long time.

Sherlock scooted off of him a bit, letting him breathe as they both caught their breath. "Tell me," Sherlock murmured with a smile, opening his eyes to look at John after a minute.

"I think you're an egotistical bastard," John laughed, pushing Sherlock over and rolling on his side to face him properly. "What did you think, "Jesus Christ, Sherlock," meant?" he asked incredulously, kissing Sherlock passionately.

"That good, hmm?" Sherlock teased, smiling smugly at John, for which he earned a sharp poke in the side. "You should take a shower."

"I don't think I am walking ever again," John mumbled contently, making Sherlock roll his eyes.

'_Fine,'_ he tapped out on John's hip in Morse Code, rolling out of bed himself and walking out of the room, presumably into the bathroom. He returned a couple minutes later with a warm, damp towel, which he threw at John before blowing out the candles.

"Thank you," John said sincerely from the bed, cleaning himself off and tossing the towel with the rest of their clothes on the floor as Sherlock flopped back down next to him. He threw an arm over Sherlock's waist, curling up against his side and resting his head on the other's chest. Gently, he fixed his dog tags around Sherlock's neck so they were back in the center of his chest. "That was amazing," he murmured, yawning.

"You are amazing," Sherlock replied, kissing the top of John's head as he started to drift off to sleep. "Good night, John."

John smiled softly, kissing Sherlock's shoulder in return. "'Night," he mumbled, falling into a comfortable sleep, very content.

**A/N: **Second ever sex scene; how did I do? Why is it longer than some of my regular chapters

Next chapter might take a while to come out again, sorry in advance… I'm going "camping" next week, so I won't post at all then, most likely, but I should have lots of time to write ;)


	10. Chapter 10

**Exploring Sexuality**

**A/N: **This is a super short chapter…. And unfortunately the last one for a week. I come back Sunday the 25th, but might not post until Monday. Thank you all kindly for the reviews and favorites and follows and whatnot; you're all so awesome! :)

**Ch. 10**

John woke the next morning to his alarm, which Sherlock had had no problem putting in his room since they had started spending the night there together.

Sherlock groaned behind him, pulling John closer. "Call in sick," he mumbled sleepily, which surprised John a little, and he repressed a small chuckle.

"I can't do that," John murmured, leaning into Sherlock's touch. This was nice. They could use a lazy morning sometime. "Were you still asleep?" he asked, the sleepiness in Sherlock's voice actually registering a bit late.

"Mhmn," Sherlock hummed, nuzzling his cold nose against the back of John's neck.

John jumped a little, carefully turning around in the other's arms to press a small kiss to Sherlock's lips. His arse was sore. "Go back to sleep, then," he instructed softly. This was a first; Sherlock was always awake before John.

Sherlock shook his head, opening his eyes slowly to meet John's. "Not unless you stay," he said, voice still rough with sleep in a way John very rarely heard it. He curled his fingers possessively around the back of John's neck, a gesture the detective seemed rather fond of.

John sighed and kissed Sherlock again briefly. "I have to go to work," he repeated, gently disentangling himself from Sherlock's embrace. He winced slightly as all the movements worsened the sting in his arse, but it truly wasn't that bad. Not as bad as he had thought it would be, anyway.

"Tell me," Sherlock said, trailing a lazy hand down John's back as he got up. Sherlock, too, got out of bed, pulling on his bathrobe and tying it loosely as John picked out clothes for work.

They usually fell asleep in briefs, and John was acutely aware of Sherlock staring at him as he got a shirt and trousers from the closet. "It doesn't hurt too bad, but I can definitely feel it," he replied, only mildly surprised when he felt Sherlock wrap his arms around his waist. He had been right; John had gotten used to it and hadn't punched him once.

"That's good," Sherlock breathed into his ear, delighting in the little shiver that went down John's spine. "I want you to feel it. To know that you're mine."

John suppressed the second shiver and again turned in Sherlock's arms, reaching up on his toes to press a kiss to the other's lips. "As if I could forget."

Sherlock smiled, one of his real, now less rare smiles, apparently very pleased to hear that answer. "I'll make you breakfast," he said, reluctantly pushing John gently in the direction of the bathroom. "Hurry up, or you'll be late again."

"Make yourself breakfast too," John replied, grabbing a pair of underpants before heading to the bathroom. "And that was your fault!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as John shut the bathroom door behind him, padding into the kitchen on bare feet. "It was my fault you had an identity crisis?" he called from the fridge.

"Yes!" John called back, a small smile on his face as he started the water and put it on hot, stepping in a moment later.

Sherlock smiled to himself and made pancakes from scratch because they actually had everything that was needed. He put tea on for the both of them as well, and by the time John was showered, shaved, and dressed, there was a small stack of pancakes waiting for him as Sherlock cooked two small ones for himself.

When John walked into the kitchen and saw the small mess Sherlock had made on the counter and he raised an eyebrow, though he was smiling. "Did you make these from scratch?" he asked incredulously, watching Sherlock's back as he gingerly sat down.

"No, I just thought you would appreciate it if I made a mess in the kitchen," Sherlock replied with almost an audible roll of his eyes. "You usually do." He hated when John asked stupid questions.

"Thank you," John said sincerely. "For the pancakes, not the mess," he clarified quickly. They didn't have any syrup, so he put jam on his pancakes. "They're delicious," he added when Sherlock joined him a couple minutes later.

"They always taste better from scratch," Sherlock replied with a small shrug, though he was smiling under the praise.

"I like it when you cook," John said when he finished, getting up to put his plate and empty mug in the dishwasher. "You actually eating then too aside." This was the second actual meal that the other had eaten in less than 24 hours.

Sherlock smiled a little, watching John contently as he cleaned up. "I know you do." Of course he knew.

John smiled in return and kissed Sherlock's cheek. "I'll see you when I get home," he said, pulling on his jacket. Both his arm and Sherlock's temple had healed by now, but Sherlock had a very faint scar. "Remember work means no texting," he added at the door, hearing Sherlock scoff unappreciatively as he left.

Work was slow today, and he felt a small burn in his arse the whole day. When he got out, he checked his mobile. Four texts from Sherlock.

_I'm on a case. SH_

Then there were three different addresses. His way of telling John where he was and that he was okay. The last one was sent a little over an hour ago, so he gave the cabby that address. The man gave him an odd look, but nodded, pulling back out into the traffic to take John to the mystery place.

Around ten minutes later, his mobile pinged, and he looked at it quickly in case he had to change the address. The text was comprised of only one work, and it wasn't signed.

_Help_


	11. Chapter 11

**Exploring Sexuality**

**A/N:** I'm back! So sorry for the hiatus, I was on vacation, and things may slow down consistently as school starts again, but I promise I won't forget about this story xxx

Also, this chapter is _really_ long…

**Ch. 11**

John's breath tightened and his fingers itched for his gun. He had come from work, of course, so obviously he didn't have it, and he sighed frustratedly. His heart was racing and he took a couple deep breathes to try to relax. Sherlock would be fine; he always was.

However, he also never asked for help.

Or rather, very rarely asked for help.

John remembered only one other time, and even just thinking of it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

They had been on the case for close to two weeks, and Sherlock was getting restless. He didn't like not being able to solve something in less than a week; two was close to torture for him. Sherlock had two suspects and had spent a whole day on the couch trying to rule one of them out, with little success.

He had finally decided it was the brother's best friend who had killed the fiancée and her parents practically as soon as John had come home from work the next day. Sherlock told John to grab his gun and more or less ran out the door to hail a cab, leaving John scrambling to follow. He had held the cab, like he always did, already explaining how it all came together before John had even shut the door.

When they had gotten to the hotel room where they were to apprehend the brother's friend (Sherlock said he was going to leave town that night; he hadn't done so already because it would seem odd not to offer his condolences. Sherlock was proud of the bloke for being so clever) the man was packing. They split up like they were used to doing, Sherlock heading in first and John following behind a moment later.

At least, that was the plan.

John heard a gunshot and Sherlock shout for him within seconds of the detective's entrance, and he was in the room in a heartbeat, gun already out.

Sherlock had been on the ground, on his back, and the friend was startling him, gun to Sherlock's forehead, eyes already on John. Sherlock was very still, but the other man was much bigger than him, so John understood why. John's heart had stopped, and the other man stared at him where he stood frozen in the doorway. He had told him to drop his gun, or he would shoot Sherlock.

So, despite Sherlock's avid protests, John did. The man then told him to kick it away from him, and John tackled him.

Mycroft paid for three bullet holes in the hotel room's walls that week.

But this time would work out the same; Sherlock would be fine when John got there, he was sure of it. And naturally, the cab got stopped at ever red light since John got the text.

He could see why the cabby had given him and odd look; they were not in a very good part of town now, and the house they stopped at looked deserted; it was pitch black inside, all the windows that weren't closed, broken. The door was kicked open. "You sure this is where you want to be?" the driver asked as John paid him hastily.

"Positive," John mumbled as he shut the door behind him, not even bothering to stay to see the cabby give him a sort of 'whatever' type shrug before driving off again. John typed out a quick text to Lestrade, forwarding him the address in case Sherlock hadn't. Then he made sure his phone was on silent before slowly creeping in to the house.

Inside was much the same as the outside- run-down looking and dark, the only light coming from outside, behind tattered window shades. It was also very silent, and John could hear only his own soft breathing and careful footsteps as he did a quick search of the first floor. Coffee was warm in the pot, which was odd, considering it was early evening by now. Other than that, it didn't even look like anyone had lived here in at least the past year.

There was both a basement and a second floor, so John decided he would take his chances upstairs first, even if every horror story told him that the "bad guys" would most likely be in the basement. Upstairs, there was a short hall and three closed doors. No real light shone from under any of them, and it was still just as silent as downstairs, even when he pressed his ear to each door. Anxiety pooled in the pit of his stomach, but John pushed through it and very, very slowly opened the door closest to the stairs.

Bedroom. Small, dusty. Empty; next door.

Bathroom. Also empty. Not even a bar of soap.

Last door.

Just as John was about to open it, he heard a small whimper come from inside, then the sound of heavy footsteps downstairs, definitely not Lestrade and his men. So he quickly ran back into the first bedroom, knowing it was empty and a less likely place for anyone to come into. Luckily, there was a closet adjacent to the last room, the one he hadn't been in, so John hid in there, pressing an ear to the wall again to see if he could hear anything else.

He picked out three sets of footsteps, though one pair was more faint and gentle. A woman? And two men, most likely. They didn't come in to the room John was in, and when he listened as the other room's door opened and closed, it was just one pair of footsteps, one of the men. So the woman and the other man must be guarding the door to that room then. Why?

Through the wall came muffled protests which John immediately recognized as Sherlock's, though his voice came slower and with none of its usual sharpness. Someone Sherlock had known before this case, someone else he tolerated? There were no other sounds besides the footsteps, a small scraping sound, like a chair on hardwood, and the faint tinkling of metal touching metal. Then more footsteps, and the door opening and closing once more, and the sounds of all three of the people walking back downstairs.

John counted out a very long three minutes in his head, trying to stay as close to real seconds as possible, though he was almost positive he counted out closer to two minutes. Occasionally he heard Sherlock give another small whimper through the wall, and his heart was pounding in his chest. Once he counted to 180, he very quietly opened the closet doors, slipping out and leaving them shut like he had found them. Again his fingers itched for his gun, uncertain of what he may find in the other room next door. John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, listening intently for any sounds outside the room he was in. When he heard none, he shut the door as quietly as he could behind him, heading down the short hall to the third door. He didn't know where the other people had gone, probably in the basement, seeing as he had searched the first floor beforehand, but all he could think about was Sherlock being on the other side of this door. After a millisecond's hesitation, he slowly pushed it open.

Inside, the room was pitch black, despite the sunlight that should have still been coming through behind the shades. John shut the door again behind him, not daring to say or do anything until his eyes adjusted. When they did, he looked around to find that he was in a bare room, completely empty save a plain, wooden chair, to which Sherlock was tied, seemingly unconscious.

"Oh god," he breathed, rushing to Sherlock's side. "Sherlock?" John whispered, gently touching Sherlock's cheek. The other man moaned quietly, leaning away from his touch. "It's okay, Sherlock. It's me; it's John. Lestrade is coming; it's going to be okay." Theoretically. John hadn't looked at his phone again to see if the D.I. had responded. "Can you hear me?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open in a brief moment of recognition, and he shook his head sharply, looking from John to the door and back again. "Go," he said, and though his voice was hoarse and gravelly, it held a desperate urgency before his eyes closed again and a small whimper escaped his lips.

John shook his head and put his wrist to Sherlock's forehead to check his temperature, slipping into doctor mode. "I am not leaving you, Sherlock. I am going to get you out of here, and we are going to go home." If they didn't stop at the hospital instead. Sherlock's temperature was high, but it didn't look like he had any broken bones or anything, meaning he had been in worse shape. "I'm going to untie you, alright?" he said softly, gently but quickly undoing the lengths of rope around Sherlock's wrists and ankles. Sherlock didn't reply, and looked like he was barely on the brink of consciousness. Once John had finished untying him, he looked around the room again, trying to work out a plan in his head. He held one of Sherlock's hands in his own as he did so.

The room was completely empty. No bed for a bedroom or desk for an office. Just the chair Sherlock had been tied to and the rope he had been tied with. There wasn't even so much as a closet. There were two windows, but they were boarded up and covered so that the evening light didn't come in. The only door was the door back out into the hall.

Still holding Sherlock's hand, John reached into his pocket for his mobile, which had a text from Lestrade. Sherlock flinched at the light it let off, but John sighed in relief.

_On my way D.I. Lestrade_

Sent twelve minutes ago. John estimated they had probably at least another ten, possibly twenty with traffic. And they couldn't just sit there. "Sherlock?" John whispered. "Can you stand?" Again, there was no response, and Sherlock's breathing was irregular, though his pulse was quick. Looking over him again, realization set in. "Sherlock, are you on drugs?" John knew he was clean, and when still no response came, he assumed it must have been whoever had come in the room beforehand. Not the first time since he's been here either, John would guess, though it was too dark to look for a needle prick. John sighed, anger and confusion joining the anxiety still swirling around in his stomach.

John let go of Sherlock's hand, and the man let out a moan like John had burned him. "Shh, I'm still right here. I just need to tell Lestrade where to find us," he explained quietly, shifting so that he was still crouched next to Sherlock, but so that John's leg was touching Sherlock's, so he would know he was still there.

_With Sherlock. 2__nd__ floor, 3__rd__ door. He's drugged. At least two men and one woman, basement probably. Be quick. JW_

He put his phone back in his pocket and picked up Sherlock's hand again, holding it tight. "You are going to be okay, Sherlock," John whispered, more to himself than the probably unconscious man beside him. "I am going to bring you home." That was something he had almost never said in the army. He couldn't bring himself to make that empty promise then where there were no guarantees. Some of the other doctors did, to give the men hope. And now, with Sherlock, John promised not only him, but himself too, that it was not an empty promise this time.

The next three minutes passed in a tense silence as John listened to Sherlock breathe. Lestrade would be here soon; they could wait until then. John couldn't get Sherlock far enough away in the state he was in anyway. It would be fine.

But then he heard the footsteps.

Sherlock beside him went rigid and started shaking his head, a tiny whimper escaping his lips.

John squeezed his hand and kissed his cheek. "You'll be okay, but I can't stay beside you now. I won't leave without you," John promised, letting go of Sherlock's hand reluctantly and going to stand by the side of the door. To wait.

Three pairs of footsteps again. They all stopped outside the door and John could hear, but not make out, them conversing with each other quietly. Yet again, his fingers twitched for is gun; he hated being unarmed. He didn't know if the others were armed, but he assumed so. Assume for the worst, but hope for the best.

The sound of the door opening and the sudden light coming through it was accompanied by the sound of tires outside, stopping fast. Which was also accompanied by Sherlock weak protests of no, John's name occasionally slipped in there. The door paused, as if the person on the other side was unsure of what to do, then opened to rest of the way, closing behind a man a good couple inches taller than John. The man stopped, letting his eyes adjust, and simultaneously John heard Lestrade's troops spill out of their cars and the other two pairs of footsteps heading back downstairs.

John didn't give the other man any more time, instead letting learned instincts take over. He landed a well-placed blow to the man's stomach, causing him to double over in pain and surprise as the air was knocked out of his lungs. Something dropped from his hand, and John instinctually kicked it away. Too small to be a gun though, more likely another needle. His next hit landed on the man's back, and he fell to his knees.

But his hand flew out and caught John's ankle, pulling him down too. "Doctor Watson, I'd presume," he said under his breath. He had a faint accent, and was breathing a little harder than was considered normal, but John had no time to ponder that or how the man knew who he was as he crashed to the ground.

Years of military training and combat had taught him how to fall with minimalized damage, but he couldn't twist fast enough to land on his other side and ended up rolling on his bad shoulder with a stifled cry and a short string of profanities. He avoided the first punch, but took the second one square to the jaw. At least the man didn't seem to be armed. He managed to land a sub-par blow to the side of the man's head before receiving another to his own stomach, knocking the breath from his lungs.

John could hear footsteps coming up the stairs and Sherlock's mumbled cries of protest and could only hope it was Lestrade's men as he landed a good punch to the taller man's groin, giving him some leverage to get to his feet again. A foot swept under his own, however, causing him to tumble again, but not without pulling the other man down with him.

They were grappling on the ground, halfway between Sherlock in his chair and the closed door, when it was kicked down and two of Lestrade's men burst through. John was quickly losing, nearly pinned under the other man's weight and height when the two men pulled him off, cuffing him with some effort.

John was almost immediately up and next to Sherlock again, his breathing rugged as he took the detective's hand. "You're okay now," he panted. "It's okay." John's whole world was Sherlock, and his breathing, his pulse, the way he relaxed fractionally as John soothed him. He ignored the pain he himself was in, knowing nothing was broken or seriously wrong.

"Jesus Christ!" Lestrade exclaimed for the doorway. The first two men had apparently taken the other bloke downstairs. "John, are you two alright?"

"I'm fine, Greg, thanks," John replied instantly, his voice soft as he looked up at the D.I. coming over to join them. "He's barely conscious though, and I don't know what's in his system." Or why Sherlock was even here, where his coat, let alone scarf and mobile, was, or if he needed to go to the hospital. Let alone anything about the case or why the man had known his name.

Lestrade nodded, offering his hand to help pull John up, John's other hand still tight in Sherlock's. "C'mon then, we'll let the medics take a look, see if he needs hospitalization this time," Lestrade said quietly, silently helping John get Sherlock up, one of his arms over each of their shoulders.

Sherlock's head rested on John's shoulder, and he could walk a little, though not straight or steady, so that Greg and John didn't have to carry his full weight down the stairs and outside. His eyes stayed closed as they led him out of the house.

Lestrade didn't say anything besides an order here and there, and didn't ask questions. There was a genuine concern on his face as he helped Sherlock and John both into the back of an ambulance.

John let Sherlock lean on him, holding him up as he answered all the questions the medics asked. He had busted his lip and hadn't even noticed, but other than that it was just plenty of bruises for him. The medics took blood from Sherlock so they could know for sure what was in his system, though he had protested weakly at the other needle, even as John held him close and reassured him.

Sherlock also protested when anyone other than John touched him, though his protests were feeble and generally ignored without preamble. He kept his eyes closed and his head on John's shoulder, curled up close to him in the back of the ambulance as everyone bustled around them.

John talked quietly to him when everyone stopped asking him questions, resting his head on Sherlock's. "You need to eat something, and drink, so there's something in your system other than two pancakes and whatever they shot you up with," he told Sherlock softly. "Once they give us the okay, I'll take you home, and we can get take out, and then you need to sleep this off." Sherlock nodded faintly, though he was already half asleep against John.

"I doubt you'll make it to the flat," the medic that usually attended to them when they got into trouble said. His name was Ryan. "He'll probably pass out now. He needs to drink lots of water when he wakes up, and I mean a lot." John looked up at the man and smiled a little, nodding to show that he was listening as he rested his head back on Sherlock's. "I don't think he'll sleep peacefully, but you can go in a minute. We'll tell you what's in his system as soon as we know.

"Okay. Thank you, Ryan," John said quietly.

The man nodded, smiling a bit at them. John talked to him every now and then; he was a nice bloke. He went off to talk to Lestrade, leaving John and Sherlock alone.

"John?" Sherlock asked weakly, not moving.

"Yeah; what is it?" John responded softly, looking down to Sherlock, not used to the quietness of his voice.

"I'm sorry."

John was a bit taken aback, but he kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "It's alright. We are both okay; you have nothing to be sorry for." Besides probably being recklessly stupid and going off on his own, but he had never apologized for that before. Of course, he wasn't usually high, either.

Sherlock nodded a bit, relaxing considerably against John, his eyes still closed.

Ryan finished talking with Lestrade, and Greg came over to Sherlock and John. "How are you feeling?" he asked, looking between the two of them.

John shrugged, sighing a little. "I've been better, been worse," he replied. "Can we go now?" John just wanted to get home, to get Sherlock home. He could ask about the blasted case and all that tomorrow, once they'd rested.

Lestrade seemed to understand, because he nodded, looking to Sherlock. "Yep. I said I would take you back, seeing as he's practically asleep, and you're looking pretty bad yourself."

John smiled. Lestrade was always so helpful, but he did it in a way so that it didn't feel like they were being babied. "Thanks, Greg," he said quietly, running his hand up and down Sherlock's back once. "C'mon, Sherlock," he whispered. "We're gonna get you home."

"I'll pull around," Lestrade said, heading off towards his car so that they wouldn't have to half-carry Sherlock again.

It was really only a bit after six, but it felt much later. Other men had come to check out the now crime scene, if it hadn't been one before. John could hear Sally's voice from somewhere not too far off. He had an arm around Sherlock's waist, supporting him as he started to doze off. "There's Greg," he said after a minute. "Help me out here, love." The endearment slipped out before it had even processed in his mind, but Sherlock either didn't care, or was too far gone _to_ care. John felt a small blush on his cheeks anyway as he carefully jumped the little way down from the back of the ambulance, taking Sherlock's waist again to help him down too, one of his arms across John's shoulders. He wobbled a little, mostly leaning on John, but they made it to the car. Greg opened the door and helped Sherlock in. Whenever John wasn't touching him somehow, Sherlock let out a small sound, that if it were anyone else, John would call a whine.

"It's okay," John would soothe him, and he sat in the back of Greg's cruiser with Sherlock curled up against him, his eyes shut tight against the evening sun. They rode in silence, except for the car radio, which Lestrade had turned down low enough that it was just background noise. Every once in a while, John would see Lestrade look back at them in the mirror with a small smile on his face.

Around the Yard, Sherlock and John's behavior hadn't changed that much, besides the fact that they were constantly holding hands. Maybe Sherlock spoke a little nicer, to John especially, even sounding hesitant with certain things, but other than that, nothing really chanced away from home. So this would be different for Lestrade, to see them like this.

Hell, it was different for John. With their heights, Sherlock usually held him. And he was never like this, quiet and sleepy and off. John was glad for a second that the drugs hadn't made Sherlock loud and tipsy-like. He couldn't imagine him like that, talking nonsense like he was stoned. If he wasn't so on-edge still, John might find this nice.

"John," Lestrade said, not for the first time, judging by his tone. "We're at Baker Street. Do you need a help getting him settled?"

John looked up at Lestrade, then out the window. They were at Baker Street; he hadn't even noticed the car had stopped. "Uhh, no thanks, Greg. I think I can manage," he decided after a small hesitation.

"You sure? You seem a little out of it," Lestrade said, a hint of worry in his voice.

John thought about it again, then nodded. "I'll be fine, thanks," he repeated.

Lestrade nodded and got out, opening the door for them anyway. Then he held out his hand for the keys to the flat, to unlock the door for them, to which John sighed and complied silently.

Sherlock was sound asleep, and though John hated to wake him, he wasn't in the best shape to carry him right now, no matter what he told Greg. "Hey, Sherlock," John said softly, nudging the man a bit. "We're home now; you're okay. Can you get inside?"

Sherlock mumbled something incoherently, then gasped and jerked away from John, eyes wide and pupils blown. "The case!" he exclaimed, practically pushing John out of the car.

"Oh, no, no, no, no," John said, shaking his head and catching Sherlock when he stumbled. He had no idea why the other was so eager to get inside now. "There's no way you've slept it off already. Plus, you can barely walk, Sherlock. I'm getting you a glass of water, then you're going back to bed."

Sherlock tried to push John away again, insisting he could walk just fine by himself, until he saw Lestrade. "What is he doing here?" he asked skeptically.

"Greg drove us home, so you can get some sleep," John explained, carefully leading Sherlock into the flat.

Sherlock looked at him like he had six heads. "John, we're not home. This is the case house. The drug dealer's," he said slowly, as if John were the one on drugs. "And that's not Lestrade, that's Dimmock," he added with a scowl.

Lestrade gave John an empathetic shrug, handing him his keys back, but seeing that Sherlock could stand better, decided that John could handle him. "I'll talk to you tomorrow," he whispered, closing the door behind him when John nodded.

"Of course, sorry, my mistake. That's what I meant," John told Sherlock, leading him to his room. "Come on, sit," he instructed, sitting onSherlock's bed, leftover paper and candles still scattered about the room. Sherlock sat next to him, mainly because John was still partially holding him up. "Shoes off, belt off," John said next, taking his own off to lead by example. He helped Sherlock undress, stripping him down to his briefs. "Good. Bed now," he murmured softly.

"Now? Here?" Sherlock asked incredulously, staring at John. "I'm on a case, John."

"Yes now, yes here, case be damned," John replied, gently pushing Sherlock down onto his back, pulling a blanket over him. "I'm going to get you a glass of water," John repeated. "Stay in bed."

Sherlock looked back at him in confusion and turned on his side, an arm tucked under his head and one knee up. John left him and went to get some water from the kitchen. "John?" he called nervously.

John finished filling the glass and was considering putting tea on for himself when Sherlock called, so he went back to the room instead. Sherlock was sitting up in bed now, a hand by his heart. He looked like he was about to cry as he stared up at John. "What is it, Sherlock? I'm right here," he soothed, sitting on the edge of the bed and setting the water on the little bedside dresser.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry. I lost them, and it's all my fault. I'm sorry," Sherlock rambled, looking at John helplessly.

John just stared at Sherlock, completely lost. That was the most apologies Sherlock had probably ever said in his life to any one person. "You lost wh- Oh," John breathed, realization settling in as he looked at Sherlock's hand. His dog tags were gone. John was angry for all of two seconds, before he saw Sherlock's face. He looked absolutely devastated, pupils still blown wide. And John couldn't bear to see that look on Sherlock's face, because it really probably wasn't his fault. So John pulled his partner? boyfriend? lover? they still hadn't decided, into his arms, letting out a slow breath. "It's alright, Sherlock," he said quietly, a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. "It's okay; it wasn't your fault."

Sherlock shook his head and tried to push John away before pulling him closer, crying into his shoulder. "It is; it's all my fault. You gave them to me, you trusted me with them, and I lost them, and now you're going to leave, and I'm in the middle of a case and practically naked in the drug dealer's house, and you were going to have sex with me, and now I've ruined it, and you hate me."

John blinked at Sherlock quizzically, not understanding. Then he realized that that must be what Sherlock believed was happening, with whatever he was on. "No, no; I don't hate you," he assured quickly, rubbing Sherlock's back as the man clung to him. "I'm not going to leave you, alright? And we can have sex some other time; it's okay," he said softly, leaving out that he hadn't brought Sherlock to bed to have sex, just trying to get him to relax. "You need to sleep. Drink this glass of water for me, then sleep, and when you wake up we can talk, alright, love?" There it slipped again, and John resisted the urge to cover his mouth with his hand.

But Sherlock just stared at him with blurry eyes like he was the most amazing person on the planet, nodding eagerly. "Okay, John. As long as you don't leave," he mumbled.

John smiled a tiny bit and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, handing him the glass of water. "I won't leave, I promise," he whispered as Sherlock drank the whole glass. "I'll stay right here," Sherlock seemed very satisfied with that answer and handed the now empty glass back to John before laying down and pulling John down with him, holding him close so that they were chest to chest, even though John was still mostly dressed.

"Right here?" Sherlock whispered almost desperately.

"Right here," John agreed softly. "Right here."

**A/N:** So, I've never written action/suspense like that, so let me know how I did :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Exploring Sexuality**

**A/N:** I didn't forget about you guys, I promise! I was just really busy (I only have two days left of summer, and one AP Bio chapter left to do) and didn't have a lot of time to write. This is probably my last chapter before school starts, and then they'll come out even slower possibly, but I promise I won't leave this story. You guys are all so supportive, thank you!

**Ch. 12**

Sherlock fell asleep again almost instantly, holding John close. John sighed softly and rubbed the other man's back, soothing him when he stirred. He absent-mindedly traced a light line back and forth where the chain of his dog tags now usually hung on Sherlock's neck. John didn't think Sherlock had taken them off once since he had given them to him.

And now they were gone.

John had been wearing them since they were issued to him, only taking them off to shower until he gave them to Sherlock. He had looked so absolutely crushed, childlike, in a way John had never seen him mere minutes ago. And he wasn't sleeping peacefully now, like he usually did when he actually slept. He tossed and turned, and John's heart ached watching him.

"I love you, Sherlock," John whispered into the darkening room. It was the first time either of them had said it aloud, though it was silently communicated daily. That didn't stop the butterflies in John's stomach as he said it however, nor did the fact that Sherlock was passed out in his arms, fretfully sleeping off a drugged high. "I have no plans of leaving you."

He placed a small kiss to Sherlock's forehead, then gently disentangled himself to finish undressing, leaving his briefs on. The slight burn in his arse from not even twenty four hours ago was now overpowered by the aches in his head, stomach, and shoulder. John refilled the glass with water, downing one himself before returning to Sherlock's room, setting the full glass back on the little dresser beside the bed. He called into work too, letting them know he couldn't work his shift tomorrow as he turned off his alarm. They were surprisingly lenient when it came to him taking days off for Sherlock most of the time, and said they would get someone else to cover his shift for him. Then he carefully slid back into bed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's thin frame. The other man relaxed a little as he did so, curling closer to John.

John decided he could go without dinner that night, and later fell asleep with his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Right there.

John woke the next morning to a relatively weak, yet insistent nudging on his shoulder. "Hmm?" he asked sleepily, tightening his arms around Sherlock's waist.

"Your alarm didn't go off. You have to go to work," Sherlock mumbled a little grumpily, sliding his hand down John's arm to rest on his hips.

As Sherlock spoke, everything that had happened yesterday returned to his head, crashing down on him. "I'm not going in today," John replied, his fingers finding Sherlock's wrist to check his pulse. Normal and even again. "Go back to sleep."

Sherlock didn't question him, just nodded, though both their eyes were still closed. His chest rose and fell slowly as he fell back asleep, something he always managed to do so quickly, to John's amazement.

_Meth and heroine. Valium was in the other needle. All "standard" doses. D.I. Lestrade_

Sent last night around eleven. John sighed, putting his phone back by the glass of water. Sherlock had come down rather easy then, considering. Looking over him, still partially asleep, John could almost assume he was just sleeping normally. His breathing and pulse were regular, his internal body clock was, if anything, a little fast. His anxiety had settled. And he didn't seem to remember what had happened yesterday.

John could only hope he wouldn't feel the need to relapse. He wondered briefly if those people knew about Sherlock's past drug use. Obviously they had known who Sherlock was, or at least what he did. Was that also why they knew who John was? Or was it because of his tags?

John sighed again, deciding he could use another hour of sleep. His body ached, but as he lay next to Sherlock, he fell into another comfortable sleep, a protective arm wrapped around Sherlock's waist.

John actually woke closer to two hours later, a little before eight. Sherlock was still sound asleep beside him. John thinks this must have been the longest time Sherlock had ever slept consecutively. Certainly since John had met him, even after cases. He was coming up on thirteen hours, plus whatever actual sleep he had gotten before they got back to the flat. To be fair, John had slept more than usual as well, around eleven hours total. He still had a dull throbbing in his head, but other than that he just felt a little battle sore everywhere else.

Carefully and quietly, John got up and used the lou, throwing on a casual pair of trousers and a long sleeved shirt. Then he headed to the kitchen, putting the kettle on and going through the routine of making tea. He sent a text to Lestrade, thanking him again and telling him Sherlock was asleep, but fine. He made toast and eggs for breakfast, something simple and easy.

He was halfway through his second cup of tea when he heard Sherlock get up, the sound of bare feet rushing to the bathroom, then the bathroom door practically slamming shut. John was up and at the door in seconds, knocking hesitantly. "Sherlock?" he asked. "Are you alright?"

In response, he earned a muffled moan and the sounds of Sherlock retching into the toilet.

John got the glass of water from Sherlock's room and knocked again once before entering to find Sherlock holding his stomach on his knees, looking miserable. "It's okay; it will pass," John said quietly, setting the glass by the sink and kneeling behind Sherlock, rubbing his back. "It's okay," he repeated as Sherlock dry heaved, his stomach empty, and moaned again.

John continued to rub Sherlock's back as his body convulsed, trying to get rid of everything in his system. Sherlock didn't say anything the whole time, just held his stomach and let out the occasional groan. It stopped after about five minutes, and John pressed a gentle kiss just below Sherlock's curls, on the back of his neck. The taller man leaned into him and gratefully accepted the glass of water John handed him, downing all of it as John flushed the toilet. "How are you feeling?" he asked quietly, more or less holding Sherlock in his lap on the bathroom floor.

"Who drugged me?" Sherlock asked instead of answering, resting his head on John's shoulder and closing his eyes.

"What do you remember?" John countered.

Sherlock hesitated, waiting at least a full minute before responding. "Lestrade gave me the case. I took it because I recognized one of the men; he used to deal for me. Lestrade didn't know, otherwise I don't think he'd have let me take it. It was a drug case, not something I'd usually take, but the drugs they were using were odd. More people were overdosing and having bad trips, according to the report and my asking around," he explained, as if he were remembering it all as he spoke. "You were at work, so I texted you the houses I investigated at. The first two were empty." Here he paused, as if not clearly remembering what happened next. "The last one must not have been."

John nodded. All of that matched up to what he knew. "Tall, probably six foot, strong. A gang, most likely, so just a dealer, unarmed. Dark hair, cropped short," John listed off. "That was as much as I could see; it was dark. Lestrade has him."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not him."

"There was at least one other man and a woman, but I didn't see them. Chances are Lestrade has them too, if you wanted to ask."

Sherlock didn't say anything to that, his eyes still closed. His breathing was steady, and he looked as if he were thinking.

"We should get up," John interrupted the silence after a little while, running a hand up and down Sherlock's arm. "You need to eat. And drink, a lot."

Sherlock didn't move from his spot against John. "Javier took your dog tags," he said resignedly after a minute.

John's breath came out in a sigh, and he nodded once. "If that's his name, yeah," he agreed quietly. "And your coat, wallet, and mobile."

"I don't care about all that," Sherlock said firmly, a hint of anger in his voice, which dropped immediately to guilt. "You gave them to me…"

"Oh, no, no," John said, shaking his head. "I already had this conversation with you, even if you can't currently remember it. You are absolutely not allowed to blame yourself for that," he insisted. He took a deep breath. "I'm not mad at you. It's alright; it's just weird now, not having that part of me," John finished quietly.

Sherlock processed that, not speaking again for a while. "I'm going to get them back," he said resolutely.

John smiled a little at the gesture, knowing Sherlock meant it. "Not before you get something good in your system first," he said, giving Sherlock a gentle push off of him. "I'll make you toast; come on," he offered, helping Sherlock up and holding his hand tight. John knew he wouldn't want to eat a lot right now.

Sherlock let John lead him into the kitchen blind and sat at the table with his head in his hands. "Do we have Advil, or Aspirin, or something?" he asked quietly as John put the toast in.

Jon nodded, though Sherlock's eyes were still closed. "I'll get you some," he replied, going to do so. John got two tablets and took one of Sherlock's hands, placing the pills in his palm.

"I take three," Sherlock grumbled, though he swallowed the two John gave him dry.

"The bottle says two; you're taking two," John said sternly. "Do you want tea, or just water?"

"Water. Cold, please."

John smiled a little at the please, a rare gesture and Sherlock's way of saying 'I know I'm being a pain right now, so thanks for putting up with me.' He filled another glass and put some ice in it, setting it down beside Sherlock. The water, untouched, was soon joined by toast with minimal butter, the way Sherlock liked it. "Sherlock, you have to drink, you're dehydrated," John sighed, sitting across from the other.

"If I ask you questions, will you answer them to the best of your ability?" Sherlock asked, head still in his hands with his eyes closed, the unspoken "so I know what really happened" understood.

"If you eat while I'm answering," John agreed, to which Sherlock nodded.

"You brought me home from the third house?"

"Yes," John replied as Sherlock took a tiny bite of toast. Then he gave him all three addresses, just to make sure they were on the same page. Sherlock knew already, but appreciated the thought.

"Have you talked to Lestrade since?"

Another small bite. "Just a text this morning saying you were fine."

Sherlock nodded, thinking, his brains still slow and confused from the drugs. "Do you know what they shot me up with?"

"Lestrade said "standard" doses of meth and heroine, John said sort of quietly, using air quotes. Sherlock tensed a little across from him, eyes still closed. "They had valium in a third needle, but I was there by then."

"You came straight from work?"

"Yep."

"Did I go to the hospital?"

"No."

Here Sherlock hesitated again, drinking half the water in his glass, then holding the glass to his temple, letting out a small sigh. "You fought the man you described to me?"

"Yes. Until Lestrade's men got there," he agreed. "He had the third needle." John knew Sherlock would want to know everything, every detail.

"Neither of you had a gun, then?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowing a little. His toast was getting cold on its plate.

"Correct."

"Was I conscious when you got there?"

John hesitated a second. "Barely."

"You held my hand," Sherlock said quietly. "You told me that it was going to be okay."

"I did," John agreed with a nod, his voice soft.

"Did you think I was going to die?"

John just blinked at Sherlock for a second, shocked and caught off guard not only by the question, but also the calmness with which Sherlock said it. Then he actually thought about it. "No," he decided after a pause. "But I also knew you weren't yourself." If he had been, Sherlock probably would have scoffed at the reassurance.

Sherlock nodded, taking a couple more small bites of toast, the glass of cold water still against his temple. The left one; the right one had the scar from Brett and Khyle's case. "The next thing I remember was another needle, but you were there, and you were insisting it was fine."

"They had to take blood, to know what was in your system," John explained.

"That was outside."

"Yes. In the back of an ambulance on the curb there."

"But then we went back inside…?"

John shook his head. "No. You thought we did. The medics patched us up, then Lestrade drove us home. You fell asleep in the car, and when we got back here, you insisted you were busy on a case, and that we were still at the other house."

"So I'm assuming Dimmock wasn't really there..?"

"Nope. That was Lestrade."

"Then I don't remember much again," Sherlock admitted, then hesitated. He drank the rest of his water, setting the glass of ice back on the table before opening his eyes slowly to look at John. His face was blank. "You called me "love.""

John felt his cheeks flush and momentarily contemplated denying it, but he knew Sherlock would know he was lying. So he decided to just be very honest instead. "Twice."

Sherlock's lips twitched up in a small smile, and he took another bite of toast, then a very deep breath. "I love you too," he said sort of quickly.

John could still feel the heat in his cheeks, but he smiled genuinely, knowing it was hard for Sherlock to admit his feelings so straightforwardly like that. "I only said that once," he replied, a bit sheepishly.

"I want to hear you say it again."

"I'm surprised you heard me say it the first time, frankly," John mumbled, though he was still smiling warmly at Sherlock. "I love you. A lot, alright? So don't go doing stupid things off on your own again, at least for a while, yeah?"

A smile split Sherlock's face. "Yeah," he agreed, taking another bite of toast. He had eaten half of it. Then he closed his eyes again. "Two doesn't work," he complained.

"Maybe it would if you ate your toast," John quipped, getting up to get Sherlock another glass of water. He added another ice cube. "Other than the headache, how do you feel?"

"Awful," Sherlock deadpanned, and John believed him. He was still out of sorts. "Javier knew what I took. Now that I've come back down, I need the high again."

"No you don't," John said firmly, standing behind Sherlock to massage the other man's shoulders. He was tense. "You came down easy; slept right through it." Though his sleep was fitful. "Don't self-destruct on me now."

The hand Sherlock hadn't been using to eat fisted tightly in his curls. "You don't understand. It's like liquid fire is burning through my veins, and only the high can put it out, make me feel right again. I need it, just one more hit, John."

"One turns into three, turns into seven." This was what John had been waiting for, what he had hoped had passed. "You're a genius, Sherlock. Surely you know what that stuff does to your head."

"John?" Sherlock asked, his voice sounding like an odd sort of mix between desperate and afraid. "Two things. I need you to promise not to leave me, not to let me give in," he pleaded, eyes squeezed shut and both hands fisted in his hair now.

"Was already planning on it," John assured, to which Sherlock nodded. "The second thing?"

"Talk," Sherlock said plainly. "About anything, as long as it keeps my attention and isn't about drugs. If you can tell I stopped listening, pinch me. Hard."

John nodded and gently untangled Sherlock's fists from his hair, lacing their fingers with one hand and taking the glass with the other. "Come here," he instructed quietly, leading Sherlock over to the couch. John sat on one end, and Sherlock lay across it, his head in John's lap and their fingers tightly intertwined.

And John started to talk. He talked about Harry, growing up with her. About his parents, something he very rarely did. About his first love and first time, because he had never told Sherlock after he had told John his. About the army, though he had to pinch Sherlock there, most likely because he had slowed down and not because Sherlock was disinterested. That was another thing he almost never spoke about, and a lot of the memories weren't exactly good, but he knew Sherlock liked hearing him talk about it, knowing that part of John's life. He talked about Sherlock, about meeting him and living with him, and eventually being in a relationship with him.

Sherlock listened fairly intently throughout, body tense and hand tight in John's. Sometimes he would stare at the ceiling, or at John, but most of the time he kept his eyes shut. "Sherlock and John."

It was the first thing he had interjected with, and John stopped midsentence about Sherlock having lost his dramatic coat being a shame to look down at him in confusion. "Sorry, what?" he asked, not following.

"You keep thinking about what to call us in your head, how to introduce us together, a label. Boyfriends sounds too immature, too much like high school. Partners sounds too official, businesslike. Lovers is close, but sounds like we're just shagging each other. Plus, I've never much liked labels anyway. I'm your Sherlock. And you're my John. Simple. True. Completely understandable," Sherlock explained as if that had been what John was talking about and it were completely relevant.

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, then smiled, nodding. "I like it," he approved, squeezing Sherlock's hand.

"Keep talking," Sherlock instructed, returning the squeeze as John complied.

For nearly three hours.

He pinched Sherlock nine times.

Sherlock drank four more glasses of water, refilling them each himself as John talked. But other than that, he barely moved. After the fourth glass, he sat up and kissed John passionately. "You can stop now," he said. "Thank you."

"Good, because I was starting to run out of things to talk about," John replied with a good-natured smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How can you run out of things to talk about? There are quite literally billions of things."

"You're welcome," John said with a small chuckle.

Sherlock looked at him oddly. "I said thank you."

"It wasn't a prompt for you to," John responded, shaking his head. "I was replying to your thank you." And cutting his snark off. Sherlock really didn't get social cues sometimes.

But the detective just nodded, looking up at John from where his head again rested in the other man's lap. "I want to go back on the case."

"No," John said almost immediately. "You are taking today off."

Sherlock huffed agitatedly at him. "Then I want to take you out," he said next.

"Where?" John asked, raising a curious eyebrow.

"A club."

**A/N: **Another long chapter. Maybe my first ones were just exceptionally short and this is more "normal"? Oh well. Hope that can hold you off until I can get the next chapter out and up.

I did some minor drug research, but if anything is too blatantly inaccurate, feel free to let me know and I can change it.


	13. Chapter 13

**Exploring Sexuality**

**A/N: **As hoped for, an update a week! Enjoy!

Thank you always for all the favorites/follows/reviews; you all are wonderful!

**Ch. 13**

John kept his face relatively blank as he looked down at Sherlock, who seemed completely serious. "Yeah, okay," he agreed, thinking about it. "You do realize it's… half past noon, right?"

"I know a place," Sherlock assured, getting up quickly, then pausing to hold his head momentarily. Vertigo, John assumed. "Go change," he added when he composed himself, letting out a slow breath.

John chuckled under his breath, following Sherlock to his room. "My stuff is in here, too," he said, watching Sherlock carefully.

Sherlock could feel John's eyes on his back as he picked out clothes for the both of them, taking John's apparel into his own hands. He sighed. "Lestrade talked me down when I was getting clean. I quit relatively abruptly, sudden, and I know it was… difficult for him to put up with me through the withdrawal," he explained, handing John his pile of clothes without really looking at him. "After the first time he did it, when he found me, I couldn't stay off without someone distracting me like that."

John nodded understandingly as Sherlock spoke, taking the clothes handed to him and starting to change. "The second time Mycroft "kidnapped" me, he told me about your 'danger nights,'" he said quietly.

"I haven't had one since I met you," Sherlock defended himself.

"I know," John assured. He didn't think Sherlock was weak for having done what he did. He knew people that did successfully get off substances that strong would always feel the pull towards it, and that make Sherlock strong, in his opinion, for being able to stay clean. "I don't…" John started, wanting to tell Sherlock he understood. "I don't think less of you, you know." At that, Sherlock's eyes flickered over to him briefly as he stepped into well-fitted, black trousers. "I know, and I accept that that was a part of your life. Though I certainly don't want you to go back, I get it."

Sherlock looked up at John again. "Thank you," he said sincerely. Not many people look at you the same when they know something like that, and for a minute Sherlock reveled in the completely understanding _goodness_ that was John Watson. That was his.

John merely nodded, buckling his belt and fixing his shirt. Both his shirt and trousers were fitted tight, though not obscenely so. Sherlock was border lining obscene, and John wracked his eyes greedily over the man before him. The dark colors he wore accentuated the pale complexity of his skin, but made his eyes look brighter. Eyes that were burning into John with such intensity that he just couldn't _not_ kiss Sherlock. Firm arms pulled him closer and skimmed and prodded, finding out where John was sore from yesterday. John's hands stayed on Sherlock's hips.

And then he pulled back. John looked up to meet his eyes, and he looked upset very briefly, before composing himself. "You don't want me to ask what's bothering you, do you?" he asked softly, sort of defeating the purpose of not asking.

"Sound observation," Sherlock replied, his hands still searching John's body. His fingers lingered around John's neck, where his dog tags would be.

John sighed internally and reached up to kiss Sherlock's cheek. "So where are we going?" he asked, wanting to take the other's mind off all of what had happened yesterday, but knowing it would be near impossible.

Sherlock smiled a little, allowing the change in subject. "Clueless," he replied, taking John's hand and leading him out of the flat. He hailed a cab almost effortlessly, an incredible skill at lunchtime in London. He slid in and pulled John after him, not letting go of his hand as he gave the cabby the address. "Do you have your mobile?" Sherlock asked, then shook his head. "Stupid question, of course you do. Turn it off."

John raised an eyebrow, but reached into his pocket and turned his mobile off. "Am I not allowed to have contact with the "outside world" on this trip?" he asked curiously when Sherlock offered no explanation.

"I don't want the world having contact with you, actually," Sherlock replied. He knew Lestade and Mycroft would want to check in with them, but he was in no mood to talk to them right now. Or never, with what they'll want to ask about. It was hard enough talking to John about all of it. John might answer them, but Sherlock could just ignore it if they texted or called.

John pondered that a minute, then nodded. "Alright," he agreed, deciding that wasn't really Not Good. "But tell them you're fine, should they ask. You don't have to respond again after that, at least until we go back to the flat."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance at John's courtesy for others, but didn't protest. Nor did he agree, however.

"They'll only worry more if you don't tell them, anyway," John pointed out, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "You should eat something more while we're out, too."

"I had breakfast."

"You had three quarters of a piece of toast," John corrected. "You can't run on that today."

"Because..?" Sherlock grumbled, mostly to be difficult.

"Because you emptied the contents of your stomach in the lou this morning," John said a bit exasperatedly. "Either eat something small now and later, or skip now and eat an actual meal for dinner," he compromised.

Sherlock scowled at him. He didn't need to be reminded of his body's weakness. "Fine," he ceded, knowing logically that John was right. He didn't like John's definition of "actual dinner" though, so; "The first one."

"Thank you," John said as Sherlock turned his head to look out the window of the cab. He contemplated telling Sherlock to stay hydrated as well, but figured he could monitor well enough for a while.

They rode in a comfortable silence, the sounds of midday London traffic coming through the closed windows. John watched the streets, trying to figure out where they were going, really not very familiar with this part of London. Before he could recognize enough of the street names, however, they pulled to a stop by the curb of a large building, two stories. There was a sign that read "**CLUELESS**" with a triangle underneath, filled in with the colors of the rainbow.

Sherlock was taking him to a gay club, then. He should have expected it, really. Clueless seemed like a pretty good name, to John.

Sherlock paid the cabby and followed John out, taking his hand again as the cab drove away. Then he led John up to the door and knocked, clearly some sort of coded knock. "I proved the owner's partner innocent of murder a year before I met you," Sherlock filled John in as a man in his mid-twenties or so answered the door with a wide smile.

The man had very light hair and eyes, brought out by the blue eyeliner he was wearing. "Sherlock, how lovely!" he exclaimed happily. "And you brought a beau, even better."

"Justin, this is John. John, Justin," Sherlock said, gesturing with his free hand as he did the introductions.

John smiled and held his hand out. "Nice to meet you," he said.

"Yes, very," Justin agreed with a smile of his own, shaking John's hand and looking as if he were trying to hold back a chuckle. "Please, come on in," he added, turning and leading them into the club like it was his home. A bouncer stood to the left of the door, dark shirt fitted tightly to his chest. "Drew, darling, Sherlock brought a friend!" he called to the man at the bar, presumably Justin's boyfriend. They each wore a ring on their pinkies.

Drew's hair was dark, and he was taller than Sherlock by about an inch. His eyes were a light brown, green specks complementary to and brought out by the green of his shirt. He whistled, looking between Sherlock and John with a smile. "Very nice," he said as he poured a drink for the man in front of him. Radom people were scattered about, maybe twenty total, not nearly enough to fill the room. The music was loud, but not so that you had to yell to be heard, and so John heard both the whistle and the comment, causing heat to rise to his cheeks.

"And very much mine," Sherlock said possessively, his hand tightening a little in John's and John felt his blush intensify fractionally.

"Of course," Justin said with a smile, throwing an arm around Drew's waist, pulling him closer to whisper something in his ear before looking back at Sherlock and John. "Soo, tell us how you met!" he said.

"We were both looking for a flat in London, and a friend pointed us in the direction of each other," Sherlock explained, not very much in to the social ritual of "catching up." But he put up with it for now. "The rest, as they say, is history."

Drew smile mischievously, an arm over Justin's shoulders. "You should stop by more often, you know, without a cause. We'd love to see more of you," his eyes shifted to John, "and you're beau."

"We haven't even been together for a month yet," John felt compelled to point out, though he didn't miss the innuendo in the man's words.

"Ahh. Well, in that case I hope we see you again, still together," Drew said in the stereotypical 'You two look cute together, it would be a shame if you broke up,' clear in the tone of his voice. Behind something else.

Sherlock stiffened a little beside him and let a sigh out between his teeth, "Yes, well, if you two don't mind I think I'll show John around."

Justin nodded, seeming to understand the sudden shift in Sherlock's demeanor. "The usual?"

"Please. John'll have a Boilmaker. You know where to find me," Sherlock replied, turning away and bringing John with him.

John tipped his head politely at the couple and let Sherlock lead him to the back of the club. "Care to tell me what that was about?" he asked as Sherlock opened a door for him, taking them downstairs.

Sherlock didn't answer, and he didn't let go of John's hand as they walked down a hallway lined with doors. He stopped at the second to last one on the left and pulled John inside. When he shut the door it was pitch black for a couple of seconds before Sherlock found the light switch and turned them on.

They were in what John could only describe as a sex room. Black and red decor. Soft, mattress-like material formed a resemblance of continuous benches along every wall except for the one with the door. A bed was positioned against the back wall in the center, with a small dresser full of only God knew what beside it, three candles on the top of that. Sherlock played with the lights and dimmed them so that they were barely on.

"I'm not being romantic, sorry, I just still have a headache," he said, watching John in the dimness.

"It's fine," John assured with a nod, still trying to process everything. "Are you going to tell me anything yet?" he asked after a minute, looking back up at Sherlock.

Again, Sherlock didn't answer him, but led him over to the bed and gently pushed him back onto it, then gracefully climbed up next to him, resting his head on John's chest, over his heart. John maneuvered with him easily, wrapping an arm around the taller man's back. Sherlock laced the fingers of their other hand together. "Not until he comes and leaves," he answered, closing his eyes.

John nodded again, a bit lost but used to it with Sherlock, and rubbed Sherlock's back as they half-lay there. He could hear the music from upstairs, could almost make out the words that went with the fast rhythm and deep bass.

A couple minutes later, there was a knock on the door, and a young man came in a second later, a bowl of pretzels and two drinks on a tray in his hands. He set the tray on the dresser, pushing the unlit candles aside to make room, and left without saying a word.

"When I decided, or Lestrade decided for me, that I was going to get clean, I came here the days after I relapsed. Justin and Drew had just bought the place, and they were willing to help me the day after. Drew's sister died of an overdose when he was thirteen. Most of the people here at this time of the day are recovering, and not all of them are actually LGBTQA," Sherlock started quietly, not moving from his spot on John's chest or opening his eyes. "No one's been in this room since they opened, except me and a few others. Drew and Justin are flirtatious, and annoying, and almost exactly stereotypical, but they're good. When the music is louder, at night, it gives me something to focus on. Your heartbeat is good too."

John waited a minute to see if Sherlock was going to say anything else, and sighed a little when he didn't. "So you proved Drew's innocence after you had met the two of them here?" he asked, trying to get a timeline straight in his head.

"Yes."

John nodded. "How did you find this place then?"

Sherlock sighed and hesitated a second, as if he didn't really want to answer that, "I was buying from Javier and Bill a couple of alleys down when they opened." He paused again, debating whether or not to continue. "I needed to pay them somehow."

John reluctantly let the many realizations of how exactly Sherlock could have paid them run through his head unnecessarily, and his hand in Sherlock's tightened fractionally.

"That bothers you."

It wasn't a question. "How bastards like that take advantage of people when they're low does bother me, yeah," John said a bit snappishly, and he felt Sherlock tense. This wasn't a pleasant topic for Sherlock either. "You… I just don't like the idea of someone using you like that." However "that" actually was. "Or anyone else, really, for that matter."

John was good, so good. He didn't blame Sherlock, wasn't mad or upset or disgusted with him for what he had done or for doing it to get drugs. "Justin and Drew knew. Know. Lestrade would talk me down, then I'd come here and they would patch me up. They never mention why any of us are here, but they know that's the only reason _I_ come."

John was still absorbing all of that, trying to get used to this open Sherlock, who told him things without John having to ask. The question crossed his mind and was out of his mouth before he could register it enough to feel embarrassed for asking. "Did you ever bring anyone else here with you?"

Sherlock's eyes opened at that, and he turned his head up to meet John's gaze. "No," he said honestly, pulling himself up so that he was half-sitting, level with John. "That's why they were so surprised. I don't think either of them realized at first that you weren't just someone I picked up."

John smiled a little at that, refusing to take it as an insult. "Technically I am. You picked me up at Bart's. I just haven't left."

Sherlock smiled back, turning to the tray and holding out a drink to John, putting the pretzels in between them and taking the other glass and two pills in the other hand. "Aspirin," he explained to John's dubious look.

"Non-alcoholic, please?" he said next, a questioning hope, nodding to the glass in Sherlock's hand.

"Water," Sherlock replied after knocking back the two Aspirin before John could protest that he really probably shouldn't take two more just yet.

John sighed a little at that, but nodded, taking a sip of his own drink. Strong, but good. "So why did we have to change and look nice to come sit on a bed downstairs?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled a bit devilishly, looking John over. "I wanted to show you off, of course," he replied, taking a pretzel and popping it in his mouth.

"Of course," John muttered with a roll of his eyes, taking a pretzel himself. Salty, typical bar food.

Sherlock watched John, leaning against him as they picked at the pretzels. "It was worth it, don't you think? Did you see the way Drew looked at you? He appreciated it."

John had noticed. "I would have thought you would prefer if no one but yourself looked at me like that," he teased lightly, nudging Sherlock's shoulder with his own.

"I know Drew and Justin," Sherlock said with a shrug. "As provocative as they can be, especially together, they wouldn't touch you. More so, knowing you're mine."

John nodded and looked at Sherlock, opening his mouth but finding nothing to say, so he closed it again. They sat together in the dark and ate pretzels and drank. A comfortable silence enveloped them, accompanied by the low bass coming from upstairs.

The not-really-silence was broken by an erotic half-moan, half-sigh from Sherlock's pocket.

The Woman.

**A/N: **Clueless is a real gay bar, but not in London. It's somewhere in NY I think, we passed it on a road trip. But I just borrowed the name, I have no idea if it looks like this or about the people or anything, but felt the need to point out it really existed :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Exploring Sexulaity**

**A/N: **School is really starting to pick up this coming week, but this update is on time, and I hope to keep future ones on time as well. Thanks for all the support! I'm sort of unsure as to what I want to do with the plot again, and I don't particularly have an ending in mind just yet.

**Ch. 14**

Sherlock hesitated, looking at John. "Would you be terribly upset if I answered that?" he asked.

"Are you asking me if I'm jealous of Irene?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. Of course Sherlock wouldn't be surprised Irene wasn't in witness protection in America. Or dead.

"Are you?"

"Would you not answer her if I said yes?"

Sherlock smiled a little and winked at John like when they first met, digging his mobile out of his pocket. "'_Heard you got yourself in a bit of trouble. Want to have dinner?_'"

"No," John said immediately, then felt his cheeks flush. "No, I'm not jealous, that is," he tried to play it off.

Sherlock actually laughed. Just a little, but it was definitely a laugh. "That was probably the worst constructed lie you have ever told me. Scratch that, anyone," he replied with a chuckle as he started typing. "'_Yes, I'd love to. With John. Maybe tomorrow._'"

John smiled a little and felt a bit of his jealousy subside. But Irene's reply was almost immediate. "'_Good for you two. Finally,_'" Sherlock read. Another text alert. "_'Mind if I join?_'" A third. _"'Though I'm su-_'" he stopped himself, and John looked up at him from the diminished supply of pretzels in their bowl.

"What?" he asked curiously, raising an eyebrow again.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied quickly, thumbing out a reply. "'_Thank you. No. Yes._'" He put his mobile back in his pocket.

"I want to know," John said indignantly.

Sherlock stuffed two pretzels in his mouth and drank most of his water so that he wouldn't have to reply. "Too bad," he said eventually.

John fixed a stubborn look on Sherlock in the dimness. "What did she say?" he asked again.

"I'm not repeating it."

John sighed, rolling his eyes. "Then let me read it."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because."

John scoffed and nudged Sherlock again. "You can't use that as an answer for how much you rebuff it," he teased.

"Because I don't want to," Sherlock amended stubbornly, eating another pretzel and resting his head against John's lazily.

John sighed, giving up. "How's your head?" he asked softly. The detective had taken four Advils in the past five hours, so he should be alright.

"Slow," Sherlock replied, scrunching his nose in distaste. "But my headace has subsided, yes," he confirmed John's assumptions.

"That's good, at least," John said. He estimated it would take around 48 hours at least for Sherlock to start feeling normal again.

They sat in the club's "silence" again for a little while, content enough to just know the other was alive and well. Until Sherlock got bored. Or curious. They were almost the same thing for him, anyway. "Why are you jealous of Irene?" he asked, still leaning against John.

John didn't even think about it before he answered. "She kissed you first."

Sherlock looked up at John at that, looking at him curiously. "My cheek. Besides, it's not like she was my first kiss." Ugh, tedious, romantic. Descriptive. Not what John was referring to? It didn't seem so.

John sighed, thinking of how he could reword it so that Sherlock would understand. "She came into our lives, and she was just so bold. Sure, she used you, but you cared about her, and I could see it. And then she kissed you, and it was like a spark went off in your head," he tried to explain. "And I couldn't do that."

Sherlock nodded and processed that, working out John's emotions. "John?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah?"

"You were speaking in the past tense. Did you… Were you jealous of Irene then, too? Before we stared dating?"

"Dating." It sounded so young and childish, even more so coming from Sherlock somehow. "I was jealous then, too, yes," John agreed after a little while. "But I had yet to realize it was because I loved you."

Sherlock smiled, resting his head back against John's. _Say it again_ he tapped in Morse Code against John's thigh, while out loud he said, "Consciously, anyways."

"Yes," John agreed, tapping out _I love you_ on the small of Sherlock's back, where his hand rested.

_Aloud._

Now it was John's turn to smile. "I love you," he repeated. He couldn't see it at this angle, with Sherlock snuggled against him, but he could tell the detective was smiling.

Sherlock didn't repeat the sentiment.

John didn't need him to.

Sherlock's phone beeped again. An actual beep, so not Irene. "If I don't look at it, I can't know it's one of them, and therefore don't have to respond," he tried, making John roll his eyes.

"Just tell them you're alight. Then you don't have to respond again," he repeated from earlier.

"Until we get back to the flat," Sherlock finished in a grumble, fishing his mobile back out of his pocket. "'_Are you two alright? I couldn't get an answer on John's mobile._'" Sherlock read, sighing dramatically at the concern.

"Lestrade, then," John assumed. Mycroft would have just gone straight to his brother first.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, typing out a response and putting his phone back in his pocket like he never wished to see it again. Then he shifted and moved so that he was laying down in John's lap, eyes shut as he stifled a yawn. "Thank you."

John didn't ask what he was being thanked for. He could deduce that well enough anyway, and even if he couldn't, it only came out of Sherlock's mouth so often. "You're welcome." He ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls soothingly, watching the other man. He still was so out of sorts, so young and vulnerable looking,

Surprisingly, he jumped when his mobile pinged again a moment later. "Give it to me," John suggested quietly.

Wordlessly, Sherlock gave his mobile to John.

_Did he talk you down? Are you two at Clueless now? D.I. Lestrade_

Sherlock groaned in disapproval as John started to reply. "You sleep, I'll reassure Greg," he said softly, knowing Sherlock was trying to fight the sleep that wanted to overcome him. He had already slept so much, he'd be hating his "body's weakness." "It's alright, love."

Sherlock smiled a little, nodding and relaxing in John's lap. He almost didn't fit on the bed, tall git.

_Three plus hours. We are, but if you come over, he might murder you. JW_

John played with the settings and turned Sherlock's mobile on silent so it wouldn't startle him again. He turned down the screen's brightness, too. Sherlock was asleep by the time Lestrade responded again.

_Can't have that. Something wrong with /your/ mobile? D.I. Lestrade_

_Sherlock. He doesn't want to talk to you or Mycroft. Or anyone. I told him I'd turn mine off if he told you he was alright when you asked. JW_

_Ahhh. Is he still interested in the case, because we need him. D.I. Lestrade_

_He's taking a day off, but he's still interested. Trust me. JW_

_I believe it. I'll see you two when he's up and running then, yeah? D.I. Lestrade_

_Yep. JW_

_Thanks, mate. D.I. Lestrade_

_Could you do me a favor, though? JW_

_Absolutely. What is it? D.I. Lestrade_

_Don't talk to him about what happened yesterday? JW_

A longer pause than usual before Greg responded.

_Sure. D.I. Lestrade_

_Thanks. He'll appreciate it. JW_

Another pause.

_I know. Don't let him brood too much, keep him occupied. It'll help. D.I. Lestrade_

_Thanks. JW_

John had talked very little with Lestrade (and Mycroft) about Sherlock's past, but he knew Greg would know enough to be helpful, at least in Sherlock's case.

John set Sherlock's mobile on the bed next to them and carded his fingers through the man's hair. He still knew practically nothing about the case, but apparently arresting whoever was in the house yesterday didn't solve it. Tomorrow was Friday, and technically he had work, but he could see if it was possible for him to take another day. He wasn't too keen on leaving Sherlock yet. Practically ever.

Sherlock startled awake, upsetting the four pretzels left in the bowl beside him. Wide eyes found John's and John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead.

"It's alright; it was just a dream," John assured quietly.

"I'm not five," Sherlock complained, but he was glad for John's soft words. He sat up again and rubbed at his eyes, though he was tense. He finished his water, then looked at John. "I want to go home."

John smiled a tiny bit. "We can manage that," he agreed, getting up and holding a hand out to Sherlock, empty glass in his other. Sherlock picked his mobile up off the bed and took the offered hand, squeezing it tight, as if John may disappear. He carried his glass and the almost empty bowl of pretzels with him. They turned the lights off in the room and John let Sherlock lead him back upstairs. John reached into his back pocket to pay when Justin took their glasses, but the other man shook his head, waving a full hand casually to brush it off.

"We don't charge for this; it's fine," he assured with a warm smile. "Don't worry about it; we've been doing it for years."

John hesitated, then nodded, smiling back. "Well, thank you, then. It was nice meeting you and Drew."

Justin looked over to where Drew was serving drinks to the slowly accumulating crowd and smiled before looking back to Sherlock and John. "It was a pleasure to meet you as well, John. We'd love to see you two again, if you ever get bored," he said with a wink in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock had the decency to use a real smile. "You're at the top of my list, should we need a place to go," he replied, squeezing John's hand again.

Justin put their glasses in a bin and kissed Sherlock's cheek, then John's, to which John blushed. Justin found that amusing, but said nothing on it. "Take care until then," he said, and the underlying meaning was heard by both men: Stay clean.

"We will. Say goodbye to Drew for me," Sherlock said, kissing Justin's cheek in return.

"Me as well," John seconded, telling himself it was just a farewell. They did it in Italy all the time.

"Will do," Justin agreed, smiling brightly. "See ya!"

"Goodbye," Sherlock and John said in unison before heading out.

"Don't be jealous of Justin too; that's just how he is," Sherlock teased slightly, hailing a cab. "He would have done it when he answered the door, but you offered your hand instead."

John breathed in and out slowly, letting that settle in reasonably in his head and letting his jealousy subside. They slid into the cap easily, hands not breaking apart. "Is that what he found so amusing?" he asked as Sherlock gave the cabby their address.

"Yes," Sherlock replied with a grin, squeezing John's hand yet again. His mind was still moving slow, his body protesting almost every movement, wanting to go back to sleep or take another hit. "Tell me."

John looked to Sherlock, brow furrowing. He had gotten fairly good at knowing when Sherlock needed reassurance, to hear something, to know. "Tell you what?" he asked, trying to asses Sherlock's body language.

"Anything. Just talk to me."

And John understood. So he did.

**A/N: **Hope you enjoyed! Reviews and criticism is always welcome; thanks again for all the reviews/ follows/ favorites already!


	15. Chapter 15

**Exploring Sexuality**

**A/N: **Sorry this took so long to get up; school got really busy and then I had writer's block and it was just bad.

Also, if you care, Blackfriar's Bridge is an Infernal Devices reference.

**Ch. 16**

John talked to Sherlock again the whole way back to Baker Street. He kept talking as they walked in and up the stairs, Sherlock leading. He barely got to the last step before turning around.

"Nope," he said, looking irritatedly down at John, who was on the step below him, having almost run into his back when he stopped.

"Hello, Mycroft," John said in response, locking eyes with Sherlock. His face clearly said: Turn around or so help me…

Sherlock shook his head defiantly, crossing his arms and sitting on the top step as Mycroft replied; "Hello to you as well, John. I'll just stay here, shall I?"

"You'll have to physically drag me in there," Sherlock said, watching John sulkily. But there was something else in his expression, something John couldn't quite place.

"You shall," John agreed, not taking his eyes off Sherlock. "We'll only be a minute." Or ten. Maybe more. He sighed and sat on the step Sherlock's feet were on, looking up at him and setting a gently hand on the other's knee. "Can't you just talk to him for a little while?" he inquired hopefully.

"No, I cannot," Sherlock replied, his arms crossed over his chest in a pout. He was acting like a five year old.

But John could tell, for whatever reason, that to some extent Sherlock really couldn't face his brother right now. "Okay," he said, rubbing small circles with his thumb against the fabric of Sherlock's trousers. "Can you go into the flat and sulk in your bedroom while I talk to him, then?"

Sherlock eyes widened just a little, as if he hadn't expected to win so easily. "I… Fine," he agreed, nodding once. "Yes."

"Say hello or something, yeah?" John pressed, raising an eyebrow as Sherlock stood and he followed suit.

Sherlock didn't respond to him, but looked at Mycroft before passing into the hall. "I see your diet isn't working, dear brother. Still." He slammed the door behind him.

John sighed and looked at Mycroft with an apologetic smile. "As you can see, he's fine. Relatively," John said with a roll of his eyes. "Would you like some tea?"

"No offense, John, but I did actually wish to speak with my brother. So if you don't mind.."

"I would, actually," John replied, voice still friendly, but also firm. "I know you're worried about him, Mycroft, but he's fine. I'll look after him." Like always.

"I trust that you will, Doctor Watson, but that does not mean I no longer wish to speak with him," Mycroft said in his "don't push me" polite voice.

John sighed. "Well he doesn't want to talk to you right now," he said. "Can you respect that this time?"

Mycroft's smile disappeared, and he looked down the hall to where Sherlock was. "He's serious, then." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

Now Mycroft sighed, but nodded once. "May I leave a message with you, then?"

"You know I can't guarantee he'll listen," John replied with a small shrug.

"He will have to read it," Mycroft responded, pulling a piece of paper out from an inside pocket of his suit jacket. He handed it to John. Coded then probably, pre-written. "Thank you; I'll see myself out."

John dropped a polite nod. "Thank you," he said in return, watching the older Holmes leave. He set the note on the relatively clean kitchen table for now and got Sherlock yet another glass of water before knocking on his door.

"I'm not reading it," Sherlock called, his voice muffled.

John rolled his eyes with a sigh and let himself in, closing the door again behind him. "You don't have to right now," he told Sherlock, who was laying on his stomach on his bed, looking miserable. "Talk to me," John said, setting the water on the bedside table and sitting next to Sherlock.

"He doesn't listen like you or talk like Lestrade, so I don't want to talk to him right now," Sherlock said, not looking up at John. "Or ever."

John nodded, tapping messages on Sherlock's shoulder: He's just worried about you. We all are. Look up at me.

Sherlock didn't, for at least a minute. Then he turned his head in his arms and peered up at John.

"What happened?"

Sherlock turned his head back so his forehead was resting on his arms. "When I first relapsed, I didn't get clean again for over a week. Mycroft did not exactly help the situation while I went through the withdrawal again," he explained in a mumble.

It's hard, I know. You're doing well. He just wants you to stay clean. I'll help.

"What can I do?" John asked aloud, his voice soft so Sherlock would know it was okay.

"Stay with me," came the immediate reply as Sherlock turned his head again to look at John. "Let me back on the case," he added.

"Tomorrow, alright? You need a day first," John responded. "I'll take the day off from the clinic and we can go to the Yard."

Sherlock nodded, satisfied for the moment. His stomach grumbled and he glared at John as if it was his fault. "No."

"You have to eat," John replied exasperatedly. "We can order take away? Go to Angelo's again? Whatever you want," he coaxed.

"What if I want to stay here and do nothing?"

John chuckled a bit. "I'd say that doesn't sound like you."

Sherlock sighed dramatically and pulled himself up next to John. "Fine. Mycroft's gone?"

John nodded and kissed Sherlock's cheek in reassurance. "He left."

Sherlock nodded back, reaching over John to take the glass of water, which he drank all of. "Take away is fine," he said as his stomach rumbled again. "Chinese."

John smiled a bit in triumph. "Are you going to stay exiled in here, or would you like to come watch crap telly with me?" he asked, wondering if Sherlock wanted to be alone for a while, or if that would be worse.

Sherlock laughed a little, a small smile on his face. "I'll come and ruin crap telly for you," he amended, taking John's hand and getting up with him, heading to the living room.

John rolled his eyes and squeezed Sherlock's hand. "You pick, I'll order," he compromised, to which Sherlock nodded, flopping down on the couch, still in the nice clothes from earlier. So was John, for that matter. John called the Chinese place they liked and ordered something for the both of them, before rejoining Sherlock.

The detective motioned John over and lifted his feet, setting them happily in John's lap when he sat down. He watched for a minute or so before he started rattling off deductions, telling John how this episode would go. He was very rarely wrong.

This felt normal again. Sherlock seemed a little more back to himself, and while John liked the unsure, soft side of Sherlock, he was starting to miss the stroppy know-it-all part of him already. Sherlock lifted his feet again a couple of seconds before the buzz signaled their food was here, and John smiled.

They ate in near silence, as per usual, and Sherlock actually finished his meal.

"John?" Sherlock said some time after they had finished eating, pulling John out of his book's world.

"Yeah?" he asked, looking up at Sherlock, whose feet were in his lap again.

Sherlock hesitated, usually a sign that he was wondering if what he was about to say was Not Good. "Would you go to the bridge with me?"

John marked his book and set it down, watching Sherlock carefully. "Tonight?"

"Now."

John though about that for a minute. It was still a little before six. "Sure. I'll come with you," he agreed eventually. "Do you want to walk again?" They had plenty of time.

"If you wouldn't mind," Sherlock replied, a bit of tension leaving his body when John agreed and a small, grateful smile on his lips.

"I don't," John replied, grinning as Sherlock's smile grew.

Sherlock swung his legs off the couch and took John's hand, turning the telly off before practically dragging John down to the street with him. He slowed once they left Baker Street, as if assured then that John really would come with him. It was about a forty-five minute walk, and they passed most of it in a comfortable silence. Sherlock tested his deductive skills as they came back slowly, though he kept them in his head. John let him think, not interrupting.

When they got to Blackfriar's Bridge, there were plenty of people crowding it already; typical London evening. Sherlock didn't say anything, but led them back to the same spot they stood last time, in the middle of the bridge. Sherlock's hand tightened a little in John's as he looked out over the water, taking slow, even breaths.

John's eyes shifted continuously between Sherlock and the river, but he didn't break the silence, ignoring the other people around them. John didn't know how long they stayed there like that, but he was surprised to hear a familiar voice behind them.

"Don't you two look rather doleful."

They both turned around, switching their hands to compensate as they did so. John smiled when he saw Donovan there; Sherlock's scarf and coat were in her arms. "Hello, Sally," he greeted her politely.

Sally smiled at him, handing Sherlock what had been taken from him. "Lestrade said I might find you here. Your wallet's in your coat. Greg didn't want you to catch a cold."

Sherlock scoffed, but let go of John's hand to pull on his coat and wrap his scarf comfortably around his neck, seemingly glad to have them back. It was a little chilly out over the water. Plus they made him look more dramatic, the bastard. "Thank you, Donovan," he said at a sideways glance from John. "I suspect I'll see you at the Yard tomorrow, then?" he asked, trying to get her to leave.

"Yeah, but there's one more thing," Sally replied, digging through her jacket pocket. "They've got John's name, but I'm assuming you had them on, so here ya go," she said, pulling her hand back out in a fist, holding it out to Sherlock.

The detective's breath hitched, barely noticeable, and he held his hand out, letting Sally drop John's dog tags into his palm. "Thank you," he repeated again, only this time it was sincere, he took John's hand and firmly pressed the chain there, curling John's fingers around it. "You keep them now," Sherlock said, looking at John intently.

John didn't argue with him about it, just kissed his cheek appreciatively and let his tags settle familiarly around his neck, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "Thanks, Sally. It was great of you to come find us. I appreciate it."

The Sargent just shrugged, sensing something important was happening, but not knowing what it was. "No problem. I'll leave you two to stare depressingly at the water again," she said with a smile before turning and walking back across the bridge.

"I didn't think we were staring at the water that somberly, do-"

"Have you won?" John cut him off, staring intently up at Sherlock.

Sherlock shut his mouth, not meeting John's eyes directly, "They are yours. I lost them; you keep them," he said stubbornly, knowing exactly what John was talking about.

"That was not what I asked," John replied, just as stubborn.

"No," Sherlock answered plainly. "But I'm not taking them back."

John shook his head, taking his dog tags off again to place them around Sherlock's neck. The taller man ducked his head helpfully, despite his protests. "If I can trust you with my life, you can keep them until you have won your war. If you still insist on giving them back then, I will take them."

Thank you, Sherlock tapped against the back of his hand as he laced their fingers together again, fixing the chain so that it lay hidden beneath his shirt.

You're welcome, John tapped back, squeezing Sherlock's hand again. "Want to tell me why we came here now?" he asked curiously.

"No," Sherlock replied, taking one last look down at the river. "But we can head home again now."

"We can walk."

**A/N: **Again, super sorry this took so long. Sally giving Sherlock back John's dog tags was dana-san's idea, hope you don't mind my stealing it, and that it did your idea justice! xxx


	16. Chapter 16

**Exploring Sexuality**

**A/N: **This is a sort of short filler-ish type chapter, because the next chapter is going to be pretty long (if it plays out in on paper like it is in my head…)

To the Guest that says they're fighting their own war and I helped them- I'm so glad you're winning. Hang in there, love xxx

**Ch. 16**

When they got back to the flat, Sherlock pulled John into his room, shutting the door behind him. "So far you talking has been wonderful, really, it helps, but I can't just listen now; I need to _do_ something," Sherlock complained, quickly pacing back and forth across the room.

"Me?" John asked a bit amusedly, watching Sherlock. He had yet to take his coat off, so it looked even more theatrically dramatic.

Sherlock stopped though and looked at John with his 'You're brilliant!' face. "That's it," he said, crossing over to John and pushing his coat over the shorter man's shoulders before working on the buttons of his shirt.

John laughed, if a bit nervously. "Yeah, okay," he chuckled, unravelling Sherlock's scarf. "You too, then."

But Sherlock smacked his hands away. "No, not tonight," he said, slowly pushing John's shirt over his shoulders as well, where it joined his coat on the floor.

Furrowing his eyebrows in mild confusion, John held Sherlock's hands still, looking up at him. "Talk to me. I can't read your mind, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes as he turned John around and pushed him gently towards the bed. "Not sex tonight, I need to do something with my _head_," he explained vaguely, hanging his own coat over the back of a chair. "Mapping."

John smiled a little and nodded his understanding. 'Mapping' referred to Sherlock's obsession with memorizing ever line of John's body. "How do you want me?" he asked, sitting cross-legged in the middle of Sherlock's bed.

The detective looked up at him and smiled at the innuendo, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. "Like that is perfect." Sherlock joined John on the bed, sitting in front of him, still fully dressed. He closed his eyes, and his hands briefly cupped John's cheeks before tracing every detail of his face. The curve of his lips as he smiled. The line of his nose. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

Slowly, Sherlock made his way down to John's shoulders, across and around the scar on his shoulder. Tracing a line where his dog tags rested when Sherlock himself wasn't wearing them.

As Sherlock mapped him, John watched bemusedly. He found the request oddly endearing and enjoyed watching the other as he 'worked.' By now, he could trace down to John's belly button completely from memory. He knew not only how John looked and felt, but how he moved and breathed.

John's right hand rested contently on Sherlock's knee, tapping a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat. The only sounds for a long while were that of their breathing and the traffic outside.

When Sherlock reached John's hips he stopped and opened his eyes, meeting John's. "How did you win your war?" he asked randomly.

"I fancied you," John replied after little thought, shrugging. "That's a pretty clear sign I'm not as straight of a bloke as I thought, don't you think?"

Sherlock nodded, still staring intently at John. He was used to it by now. "How do I win mine?" he whispered.

John stared back at Sherlock, surprised by the quietness of his voice. "You stop chasing drug cartels alone," he said after a minute, brushing his forefinger lightly across the inside of Sherlock's wrist. "And you learn to think positively of yourself. Ignore or delete anything negative," he added quietly.

Sherlock stiffened when John touched his wrist, but slowly relaxed again, he eyes having not left the other's face. Then he nodded. He didn't say anything, but he tapped John's knee twice before standing and unbuttoning his shirt, stripping down to his boxers.

John did the same, collecting their clothes and throwing them in the hamper. Sherlock hadn't moved, and John wrapped his arms around the taller man from behind. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's shoulder blade, the nape of his neck. "All of you," John, murmured, tracing the waistband of Sherlock's boxers. Seventeen seconds until he nodded, and John pulled them down, leaving a sparse trail of kisses down his spine. Then he took a step back and dropped his own pants, watching Sherlock's back. John gently turned Sherlock around and unabashedly looked him over. When his eyes returned to Sherlock's face, a faint blush tinted the other's cheeks. "You are beautiful," he said slowly and evenly before kissing Sherlock soundly.

Sherlock pulled John close, wanting to feel his heat, not wanting a millimeter of space between them. He didn't understand why he felt that way around John sometimes, but when he did feel it, he could never fight it. And it terrified him.

"I wasn't chasing them," Sherlock panted when they broke apart. "I was just looking for them at that point."

"Irrelevant," John replied, kissing his collar bone.

Sherlock's breath left him in a small puff. "Very relevant."

John smiled and rolled his eyes good naturedly, pushing Sherlock toward the bed. "Of course it is," he mumbled, crawling under the cold sheet and pulling Sherlock close to him. Sherlock pulled him back just as close. "Do try to get some more sleep tonight, love. I'm sure it will be a long day tomorrow."

A noncommittal noise escaped Sherlock's lips as he nuzzled up against John. Love you, he tapped against John's chest.

"I love you too," John whispered. Sherlock didn't say it often, and then almost never first. "Good night."

"'Night," Sherlock mumbled back.


	17. Chapter 17

**Exploring Sexuality**

**A/N: **Took my first AP Bio test. Don't think I did awful, but Doc says no one's passed it ever, so….

High school advice- if your school offers a Psychology class, take it. It's super interesting and will change your whole outlook on life. I love it. :)

**Ch. 17**

John woke with a start the next morning to a loud crash. He cussed fluently and pulled himself out of bed, throwing on a pair of boxers as another crash sounded through 221B. He got to the kitchen in time to see Sherlock throw a plate, very flamboyantly, to ground, watching satisfactorily as it shattered at his feet. Of course he wasn't wearing shoes. Or even socks. "What the bloody hell are you doing?" John demanded with a raised eyebrow, his hands settling on his hips about a yard away from Sherlock.

"I am releasing my frustration," Sherlock replied calmly, turning from the cupboard with a mug in his hand. John sighed exasperatedly and closed the space between them quickly, holding Sherlock's wrist so he couldn't break their mug. "Let go of me," the detective said in such a dangerously low voice that John did, if only out of surprise.

John blinked at Sherlock, still a bit slow, having woken up not five minutes ago. "Can I have that, then?" he asked, looking to the mug and keeping his voice level. Requesting, so that Sherlock was less likely to smash it just out of spite. He held his hand out expectantly.

"Fine," Sherlock spat, shoving said mug in John's direction. "You're a doctor, then. How would _you_ suggest I release my frustration?" he snapped.

John gently set the mug on the counter and put a hand on the other's shoulder, not responding to Sherlock's sharp tone. Sherlock recoiled immediately though, glaring down at John. His body was as tense as a wire. "You could start by telling me why you felt the need to destroy our dishes," John said slowly, dropping his hands to his sides and keeping them there.

"Why?" Sherlock exclaimed rhetorically. "Because my bloody brother feels the need to butt into every aspect of my life!" he practically shouted, thrusting the note that Mycroft had left in John's direction.

John sighed again, but took the note, looking it over. "Is this Chinese?" he asked incredulously, eyebrows scrunched together. He didn't even try to decipher the symbols on the paper in his hand.

"Japanese," Sherlock replied curtly, still glaring at John as if whatever this was was his fault. "It says that my dear brother doesn't want me on this case, and that I am forbidden to do anything besides consult with Lestrade. No going to crime scenes, the house. No finding further evidence. No anything. I have to work with whatever the stupid Yard comes up with."

John could see how that would upset Sherlock. But he could also see why Mycroft did it. He couldn't, however, see why Sherlock actually planned on listening to him this time. "Or?" he asked, looking for the missing piece.

"Or he's sending me to rehab."

John hesitated, then nodded. "Come here," he said, setting the note down and holding a hand out to Sherlock as he walked into the living room, carefully sidestepping the broken plates and such. Sherlock didn't take his hand, but he did follow John, sitting stiffly in a ball beside him on the couch. "Do you know why he would say that?" John asked, looking at Sherlock with a gentle concern.

"Sentiment," Sherlock scoffed. "A power play."

John let out his breath slowly. "Did you consider it "a power play" that I wouldn't let you go in yesterday?" he asked, part curiosity, partly to prove a point.

Sherlock blinked at him, as if he hadn't considered that the two things may be even remotely connected. There were three nicotine patches up his left arm, and John watched as he flexed, catalyzing the chemical spread through his body. He didn't answer, so John waited patiently. "No."

"Why not?"

Sherlock's fingers curled around the dog tags against his chest. He didn't answer again for at least a minute. "Because I'm not in competition with you," he decided at last.

"Good," John said with a nod. "Now go clean up the mess you made. Do you want tea?" he added, getting up and heading back into the kitchen.

Sherlock stared at his back in a confused surprise. "Black," he replied, getting up after another minute. He brought the garbage bin over to the pile of shattered ceramic and threw them individually into the trash.

John put the kettle on and sighed, going over to Sherlock, crouched on the floor, helping him. "We have a broom for this sort of thing, you know," he said, working carefully so as not to cut himself.

"I didn't," Sherlock admitted after a short pause.

"It's in the closet," John informed, though he knew Sherlock would just delete the information. Again. "Where it's always been."

John's voice was soft as he spoke, and Sherlock looked up at him. "Why aren't you angry?" he asked, still tense. On edge.

"It's just a couple of dishes," John said with a small shrug and a sigh. "I wouldn't go making a habit of this, however," he warned.

"Cleaning?" Sherlock inquired, putting the last little piece in the trash. "Don't worry; I won't."

John chuckled a little in spite of himself, knowing it was true, and rolled his eyes. He kissed Sherlock's forehead before he stood again, and Sherlock's body tensed even more, making John's smile drop. "No touching day?" he asked softly.

Sherlock nodded stiffly, returning the garbage can to beneath the sink without a word.

"Alright," John assured with a nod. "Really, it is." Sherlock didn't respond, so John got a mug out for each of them, getting the milk out of the fridge as he waited for the kettle to boil. "Do you still want to go to the Yard? To at least talk with Lestrade and the team?" he asked a bit hesitantly as he served their tea.

Sherlock nodded, wrapping his hands around the steaming cup appreciatively. "How are the idiots going to know what to look for if I don't tell them?" he murmured, not really talking to John.

John put toast in the toaster and took his seat across from Sherlock. "When do you want to leave?"

"Nine," Sherlock replied, stretching his legs out beneath the table and propping them up in John's lap. Apparently that touching was okay. Sherlock-initiated touching seemed to be okay in general, it was just John who couldn't touch.

But he didn't mind.

"Alright," he said again, smiling a little over his mug at the other.

Sherlock lifted his feet when John's toast popped, resting them on his chair while he was up. He watched as John put in two more pieces of toast and buttered the first two. "I'm not hungry," he insisted when John slid the plate across the table to him, sitting back down to wait while his own toasted.

"Too bad," John replied easily, taking another sip of tea. "It's just toast; it's not like I'm making waffles and sausage and fruit. Two pieces, please?" Sherlock was in a mood, and that usually meant he neglected his body's needs. And he needed to eat.

"Fine," he grumbled reluctantly, taking a bite of toast. Toast was John's go-to 'you must eat something for breakfast' food. But it was the please that made Sherlock agree. John was worried about him. John cared.

John was talking to him.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock asked, pulling himself out of his head enough to listen to what the other was saying.

"I said thank you," John repeated, watching Sherlock with a small smile. "For eating," he clarified, though he knew he didn't have to.

John didn't have to thank him for eating. "You're welcome," he mumbled around another bite of toast, going back to thinking. John doesn't mind.

John's toast popped, and Sherlock was too busy to notice. John rolled his eyes good naturedly and tapped his calf twice, gentle. "Let me up," he said.

Sherlock jumped, his toes hitting the underside of the table with a thud. "Ow," he mumbled, letting John up grumpily.

"Not my fault you weren't paying attention to the real world," John quipped, spreading jam over his toast. Sherlock had at least eaten one piece of his own. He was staring at him, so John let him, smiling when he rejoined him at the table. "What?" he asked curiously, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, it was your fault, first of all. Indirectly," Sherlock replied, eyes moving slowly up and down John's torso, his feet resting in his lap. "Second, can't I just look?"

His eyes met John's, and John blushed faintly. Sherlock looking was very different than anyone else looking. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did." John asking- a sign he's not sure if Sherlock will be okay with the question. He doesn't have to answer, he knows that, but he also doesn't want to let John down.

John sighed softly and rolled his eyes, taking another bite of toast before resolving to ask. "Why do you have 'no touch' days?" he asked, curious, but still gently.

On the giant list of things John could have asked him, that was not one Sherlock would have thought he'd pick. But it was also not one of the worst, so he tried to answer in a way John might understand. He took a deep breath. "Sometimes it's just too much. It assaults my brain, tearing me apart, because touching _isn't_ my area. My "no touch" days," Sherlock explained, using air quotes to coin John's phrase, "are a way of controlling it, almost. It's a day I can say no, and I don't have to worry about what you're expecting," of me, "or what's normal. I can just shut it all off." He hadn't really meant to say all that, not out loud, not to John, not ever. But it was out now, and he couldn't take it back, so he stared into his almost empty mug of tea, holding it between both of his hands.

John sat silently across from him for a long while, letting that sink in. "You shouldn't have to pick a day, then," he said quietly when he did finally say something.

"Yes, well, sorry to disappoint, but sometimes I just need-" Sherlock snapped defensively, but John was shaking his head and cut him off.

"No, no, that's not what I meant," John rushed to assure. "I meant you shouldn't have to pick a day to say no. You should be able to say it any time. You _can _say it any time. Whenever it's too much, or you feel uncomfortable, or whatever. You can say not to me, Sherlock," John explained, looking up at the other intently. "God knows you say it to everyone else," he added with a bit of a teasing smile.

"You're not everyone else," Sherlock said before he could think too much about it.

John's smile only grew. "Maybe that's why I'll listen," he replied.

Sherlock met the other's gaze. This was John. John cared. John listened. John chased him across London. He could trust John. But… "I need to get used to it," he said.

And John understood. He didn't say they had been together for almost a month and as good as for much longer. He didn't scoff or roll his eyes. He nodded. "That's fine." He assured. "But know you can talk to me about it, yeah?"

Sherlock smiled a little. Nodded. "Yeah." Because he could. He could talk to John.

"Good," John replied, that smile still on his face as he finished his toast and did the washing up. Sherlock watched him. John let him. "I'm going to have a shower, then I think I'll do the shopping. I'll be back before nine so we can go to the Yard."

Sherlock nodded, only half listening, and spread himself out on the couch, going over everything he remembered from the other day, making sure all the case details were as clear as they could be without much evidence. He faintly registered hearing John tell him goodbye.

He didn't hear John come home half an hour later. Didn't hear him say his name, repeatedly. Definitely felt John's hand in his hair. His eyes snapped open.

"Stuck in your head?" John said, part amusedly, pulling his hand back. "You didn't answer. Were you planning on going to the Yard in just your pajama bottoms in late September?"

"Yes, sorry, no," Sherlock answered in a way that made John go back and think about what he had said. "I'll be less than ten minutes," he added, pulling himself gracefully up and out of his thinking position on the couch and going to get changed and wash up a bit. "Tell Lestrade we're on our way, will you?" he called behind him.

"Mhmn," John hummed, texting Lestrade. "Drink a glass of water before we go," he instructed, sure Sherlock wasn't fully recovered yet. He heard the tap run and shut off defiantly and smiled. "Thanks."

Eight minutes later they were in a cab on their way to the New Scotland Yard. Sherlock was tense, which was odd because he was usually in his element on a case. Was it Mycroft's restrictions? Why wasn't his hand in John's?

"Stop thinking," he said, looking over at John.

"Tell me what this mood swing is about, then," John countered, raising an eyebrow in question.

Sherlock looked away and didn't relax.

The rest of the cab ride was passed in silence.

As soon as they stepped out of the cab, Sherlock turned on John and took his arms, holding him an arm's length away, still. "Because I'm invested in this case." Emotionally. Personally. It was the answer to John's question. "These men, the ones at the house, they are not good people." They can't know what John means to him. They'll hurt him, take him. "I _am_ going to talk to them, no matter what Mycroft says, and I need to be ready for that." For John to hear what they might say about him. His past "I need you to be ready."

John absorbed that and tried to understand what Sherlock found so important about him knowing it. Of course they weren't good people. Not many of the people they worked with were. He didn't quite understand, but Sherlock was still staring at him expectantly, so he nodded. "Alright. But, Sherlock?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement. "Be careful." They were just at the Yard, they were safe, but Sherlock was personally invested in this case in a way that John had never seen him.

Sherlock nodded once and kissed John's forehead quickly. "You too," he whispered so quietly he almost hoped John didn't hear him as they walked into the warmth of the Yard.

Lestrade was a mess. He looked like he hadn't had a decent night's sleep since before he drove John and Sherlock home. His hair was disgruntled, he had bags under his eyes. His collar was loose with his sleeves pulled up. A cup of coffee was on his desk.

"What are _you _doing here, freak?" Donovan asked skeptically, being the first one to notice the two of them. "I thought your brother put you off this case."

"If I was officially off this case, you lot wouldn't solve it," Sherlock replied curtly, glaring at her. His hand tightened at his side as if he wished he was holding John's.

"Enough, both of you," Lestrade cut in before Sally could say anything in response. "Mycroft said Sherlock couldn't be in the field, so he's just helping out here. I seriously don't have the patience for the two of you to be at each other's throats today, so knock it off." He turned to Sherlock. "What do you need to see?"

"Whoever you brought in the other day," Sherlock answered immediately. Lestrade was more compliant when he was at his wits end. Eager for the case to be solved.

But he still hesitated. Damn Mycroft. "Three men and a woman. Read their files first, look over Donovan's notes, then fine," he ceded tiredly.

Sherlock complained internally a great deal, but smiled triumphantly at Lestrade. Mostly for Donovan's benefit. "We'll get right on it," he said, picking up Sally's notebook despite her protests and glare.

John took the files Lestrade handed him with an apologetic smile. "You should take a night, mate. Get a decent amount of sleep," he said.

Lestrade just laughed. "Yeah, okay," he chuckled. "Watch him for me."

"Always do," John replied with a rueful smile before following Sherlock over to a corner of the office where they sat on the floor, files and notes spread out between them.

And they got to work.


	18. Chapter 18

**Exploring Sexuality**

**A/N: **So sorry this took so long to get up; it's been written, I just haven't had the time to type it. I had a really bad week. But here it is!

**Ch. 18**

They read through files and notes for almost an hour. Sherlock made three lists. One of the things to look for at scenes and such. One of names he knew, who to look out for. And one he wouldn't let John see. The first two he gave to Lestrade, the last he slipped in his pocket. John wanted to, but didn't ask. Lestrade told them where the men and woman were being held, and they walked there in silence.

Of the three men, Sherlock only knew one of them, but he knew the woman too. He wanted to talk to them first and insisted on talking to them each separately, which John of course saw the logic in.

Sherlock stopped just before the door so abruptly John almost ran into his back. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and all the tension left his shoulders. He was acting, John realized. Without a word, he walked into the room, and John followed.

Gabriella Walker was in her mid-twenties, five foot two, dark hair and eyes. She wore contacts and had a pierced noes, tastefully done. Her shirt was too tight and too short, leaving an inch or two of skin visible above the waistband of her jeans.

If John didn't instinctually dislike her, he would admit that she was actually rather attractive.

She got into the business about the same time Sherlock started buying.

"I was wondering if you were going to come say hello, Lock. You're in the papers, you know. We hear about you still every now and then," she said conversationally as they walked in, smiling at Sherlock like she knew something he didn't.

Not for long, John thought to himself.

She looked him over and raised her eyebrows. "Never knew you to be much of a people person. So why does he get to stick around?"

Sherlock kept his composure perfectly. "If you read the papers, you'd know that this is Doctor Watson, my colleague. Usually the name next to mine," he replied curtly, straddling a wooden chair to face Gabriella. "Done asking questions?"

"I suppose you want to start, hm?" she asked in response as John leaned against the wall adjacent to them. He was really just here because Sherlock was, and he had that nagging feeling of being out of place that sometimes came across him while at a crime scene.

"You aren't just dealing crack now, are you?" Sherlock replied, only phrasing it as a question for show. "Are you still on pot? I'd say yes, due to the smell on you, but that could just be who you spend you nights with as well. Doubtful."

"You always were so much fun at parties," Gabriella said with a role of her eyes. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "What did I get hauled in for?"

Sherlock smiled. The fake, dazzling smile. "Why don't you tell me?"

"Possession and sale of a class A drug," she said with a shrug. "Possibly kidnapping."

"Boring," Sherlock drawled. "I wouldn't be here if that was all it was. What's Javier cutting with these days? Not sugar anymore. Too expensive? Business going poorly as of late, is it?"

Gabriella just shrugged again. "I just sell what he gives me, I don't ask questions. You know how he is, how things work. Haven't seen him personally in a while, actually." Her indifference shifted to something like a predatory malice. "Do you miss it? The clarity, the buzz? You do, you have to. You were so passive Wednesday."

John's arms were crossed over his chest, and his fists tightened at the woman's words. But he kept his expression in check, not saying anything.

Sherlock merely shrugged, though some of the tension had returned to his shoulders. "You know how it is," he threw her words back at her calmly. He didn't look at John. "Or you'll find out in the next few days." With that he stood and left the room, leaving John to trail behind him.

"He's not worth it, in the end," Gabriella called from behind them as the door banged shut.

John watched Sherlock silently for a minute. He was standing in the middle of the hallway, perfectly still and incredibly tense, eyes closed. John put a gentle hand on his arm, and he didn't tense further or pull away, so John took that as a good sign. He opened his eyes, looking down at John. "Aren't you going to tell me everything?" he asked with a small smile, locking his fingers with the other and squeezing his hand tight. When John relaxed his hand, Sherlock didn't.

"Useless. That was useless. She wasn't lying; she doesn't know what Javier's mixing with, what they're selling. The business is in decline, but I don't yet know why, and- oh!" Sherlock cut himself off, face lighting up, then falling again. "Javier's not in charge anymore."

John rubbed circles with his thumb on the back of the other's hand. "Is that good or bad for you?" he asked.

Sherlock looked at John oddly, like that was a weird question. "Good for me, I guess," he said after a minute, his voice much quieter than it was only a little while ago. "Bad for the case, though. Now I know less than I thought I did." He glared at the door they had just came through, and the one next to it.

"You'll figure it out," John said confidently. "I know you will." He followed Sherlock's line of sight, his eyes lingering on Gabriella's door. "She'll go through withdrawal." It wasn't a question.

"She's just recently started; it won't be that bad." He knew John would hear the unsaid 'not as bad as me' no matter how hard he tried to cover it up. He wished secretly that it would be worse, but that was decidedly Not Good.

John almost felt bad for her himself.

Instead he squeezed Sherlock's hand again, though what he really wanted to do was kiss him and hold him close, telling him it would all be alright. "I think you'll be more than worth it, by the way," he said quietly as a compromise. He didn't ask about the history Gabriella implied they shared. Wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Sherlock didn't respond, but squeezed John's hand tighter in return. The dog tags hanging comfortingly around his neck were proof enough of what John thought.

Not that he didn't like the verbal reminders.

Secretly, of course.

Sherlock closed his eyes, let go of John's hand reluctantly, and took another deep breath. "You go in first," he murmured, opening his eyes again to look at John. Bill will be worse. "Don't let what he says get to you."

John nodded, holing Sherlock's gaze for a second. "You either," he said, squaring his shoulders before leading the way into the next room.

Sherlock followed with the ghost of a smile. This was Captain Watson, the soldier. Not John the doctor. He was strong enough for the both of them. The door closed behind him, and Sherlock straightened his back.

Bill was in his late thirties, but he was fit. A boxer. Dealer, but not a user. Short hair, close to the military style John wore, but it was almost black. Tattoos up and down his arms, leading up under his shirt. He was higher up in the chain of command than Gabriella.

Sherlock used to buy from him.

He hurt John at the house.

Sherlock would find out what he needed to know.

He straddled another chair, crossing his arms over the back of it as he face Bill.

"Been a long time, hasn't it? Since you can remember, anyway," the man said, his voice deep and gravelly. "What, a whole year?"

"Two," Sherlock corrected curtly, letting Bill play his games for now while he observed.

"And now you get to start back at none," Bill said cruelly.

"You can't push me any farther back."

Bill chuckled, as if that was a challenge that he was fully planning on accepting. His eyes flickered to John. "Does your new boy toy have something to do with that?" he asked, enjoying watching how both men tensed, even if it was imperceptibly. "Ex- military, doctor. Very impressive, I must admit, but he doesn't really seem your type to me. Must be really good in the bedroom. Or in the hall. Over a table."

John was physically fighting every muscle in his body to not go over and punch the man. Sherlock's reply almost made him drop his jaw in shock, though he kept his composure by sheer force of will.

"Better than you, by far."

But then the urge just increased.

Sherlock wanted to crawl under his chair and die, but he wouldn't let Bill win. Not again.

"Military man. Must be strong, _demanding_. In control. Does he enjoy watching you break, watching you _beg_?"

Something inside John snapped. "Sherlock topped," he said, his voice low and threatening as he glared at the man a mere yard from him. "And if you keep talking to him like that, I might enjoy watching _you _break."

"John," Sherlock warned, his scrutinizing gaze not leaving Bill.

But Bill was just smiling smugly. "Of course, Captain," he replied, rolling out the title like an insult before turning back to Sherlock. "The man you're looking for is Eric Vant. Don't know if that's his real name, but that's what he goes by. Six foot three, bald, early forties, they say. He's not good for the business and I want him out."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, calculating. "Javier?"

Bill shrugged. "Dropped off the face of the Earth about two months ago. No one's heard from him since. Might be his wife."

Javier's wife had been expecting, wanted Javier to quit the job. More likely though, he was dead. "Who took over? Eric?" A disapproving nod. "And the other business?"

The color left Bill's cheeks. "I'm not in for that."

"You could be if I said something," Sherlock said, taking the piece of paper from earlier out of his pocket and handing it to Bill, along with a pencil. "What addresses am I missing?" he demanded.

Bill didn't look nearly as smug now, but he eventually added two lines to Sherlock's short list. He was left handed. "That's all the ones I know," he said with as much defiance as he could muster.

It wasn't much.

"Where can I find Eric?"

Bill hesitated. "He's a bit of a mysterious bloke. I've never actually met him, just heard about him. Don't know many that really have. You'd have to poke around the market to get an answer to that."

Sherlock took the paper and pencil back, glancing briefly at the addresses the other had added before returning it to his pocket. "When we get Eric, you won't prosper. You might turn a short profit, but then you'll lose it. Not that you will be on the streets to know that," he said, getting up and heading toward the door.

"But you will. You and Captain Watson."

The door slammed shut behind John, but before he could say anything, Sherlock pushed him back against the wall, kissing him fiercely.

"I thought I told you," Sherlock said lowly, "not to let him get to you."

John's arms wrapped protectively around Sherlock's waist, but he didn't seem to mind at the moment. "I couldn't just sit there and let him degrade you like that," John replied with a barely apologetic shrug. "He's lucky I didn't punch him."

"You did, two days ago," Sherlock pointed out. "I didn't realize it was him you were describing at the time."

"Again, then," he amended, searching Sherlock's face for something he couldn't quite find.

"Do you believe him?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow, focused on the case again.

It took John a minute to switch gears however, and when he understood the question, he hesitated. "Why would he tell us now if he didn't tell Donovan and Greg?"

"You heard Gabriella; I'm in the papers. He was waiting for me to come myself."

"So he could insult you."

Sherlock didn't deny it, couldn't wholeheartedly. So he kissed John again, though it was much more tentative then the one before. "To get me to react to it," he countered when he pulled back.

John sighed a little and nodded. "Do you still need to talk to the other two?" he asked, relaxing when Sherlock shook his head. "What's the list for, then?" he finally asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Sherlock didn't respond right away. "Not Good."

John nodded; he had assumed so. "What is it?" he repeated.

Again, Sherlock hesitated, looking at John. "Human trafficking locations," he confided after a couple of minutes.

John tensed in disgust, nodding again, then taking Sherlock's hand. "Give it to Lestrade," he said plainly, walking back with Sherlock that way.

"I'm going to," he assured. Obviously he was going to. But he still felt the need to explain himself to John. "We've never had enough evidence to convict Javier, or find any of the actual rings. Bill knows he's screwed either way now, so he has no reason to lie."

John blew out a little sigh, hating these people more by the minute. But Sherlock was with him. Safe. He would give the addresses to Lestrade, and they would save those people too. "You do a lot of good, you know," he said a bit randomly, his voice soft and sincere. "Maybe not always in the socially best way, or within the boundaries of the actual law, but you help a lot of people."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not a hero, John," he chastised, always amazed at the good light John insisted on shining on him.

John only smiled, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "You are to some."

Sherlock decided not to respond to that, wordlessly putting the list of addresses on Lestrade's desk when they got back. "Paying attention?"

Lestrade sighed heavily, flipping open his own notebook. "Yep; what have you got?" he replied, jotting things down as Sherlock recounted what he had deduced so far. Lestrade sighed again. "Someone will have to go in, then. To find Eric."

"I'll go," John offered, knowing Sherlock would want to go and not wanting that to happen in the slightest.

"You know you're not actually with the Met, John. I can't send you in, much less alone," Lestrade said tiredly at the same time Sherlock exclaimed: "Absolutely not," his hand tightening in John's as he shook his head.

John hadn't exactly expected that to fly. But if Lestrade couldn't send him, he couldn't send Sherlock either. "At least Greg has a reason, besides being a hypocritical prat," he mumbled. Sherlock had the decency to look slightly abashed and guilty.

"They know you both now anyways," Donovan pointed out from her desk. "You'll need someone less in the public eye."

"A rookie?" Lestrade asked incredulously, staring at his Sargent.

"No," Sherlock and John said in unison, but Sally was shaking her head too, then she shrugged.

"Send me."

No one raised any immediate objections, but everyone looked a little wary, except Sherlock, who was calculating.

"Oh, come on. I'll straighten my hair, wear glasses or something. I'm not saying I can't have backup, just that I should go in. Poke around. Find this Eric guy and kick his arse."

"This isn't a _game_, Donovan," Sherlock snapped harsher than was strictly necessary.

"I'm not treating it as one, freak," Sally snapped back. "You need someone to go in, and I'm offering. Tell me what you need, and I'll find it," she continued, looking to Greg.

Lestrade held her determined gaze for a minute or so, before sighing. "We'll need to assemble a team. You're not going in alone. Sherlock, fill her in on the area and the market, the people. I'll get this through," he said, picking up the list off his desk. "You'll go in tomorrow."

Sherlock was in his element again, in charge, and John watched him in amazement as he explained everything he knew about the area to Sally. She grumbled a bit initially, but needed to pay attention, and eventually they stopped bickering for a while. John watched as Sherlock drew maps and made another list of names, each with a brief physical description. It was like he was talking about something he had studied, not something he had lived, John realized. He was trying to detach himself.

"Whatever you do, do not take anything they give you," Sherlock was saying very seriously.

"Is that your professional advice?"

Sherlock looked like he was going to murder her and probably already knew at least six ways to ensure her body would never be found, much less linked to him, so John put a gently hand to the small of his back. "Lay off, Sally," he said, glaring pointedly at her. Sherlock's muscles were tense under his palm.

"I need to test what you are going to buy, find out what's different about it. If you want to buy another dose, be my guest," Sherlock replied icily, ignoring John.

"I swear, if you respond to that in any way other than professionally, I am going to hit you both," John warned.

Sally opened her mouth, but Sherlock spoke first. "What Sergeant Donovan does in her spare time is none of my-"

John cut him off with a firm kiss, nipping his lower lip sharply. "You're keyed," he said when he pulled back. "I get it. But shut up." He looked to Donovan too. "Both of you."

"That was hardly the punch I was hoping for," Donovan mumbled. "And ew, by the way." Not homophobic, just obnoxious.

To keep the smart reply from passing his lips, Sherlock kissed John again. He pulled back with an almost satisfied smirk, which he perfected when he turned back to Donovan. "Buy something powdered. Easiest to cut, not too hard to fake. Tell Lestrade that he owes me one, and sleeping on the couch really is better than at his desk. And that I need the second list back," he told her curtly, taking John's hand and practically dragging him out of the room.

"Sherlock," John said softly.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, I do."

"I don't care."

Jon smiled, just a tiny upturn of the corners of his lips. "Yes, you do," he replied. "And so do I, so talk to me."

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the hallway, pulling John into a tight embrace, just holding him there. "I don't want to talk about it," he repeated, the words muffled as he spoke them into John's hair.

John sighed, holding Sherlock close for comfort. "Okay," he murmured. "Alright, it's okay." He rubbed Sherlock's back as if he were soothing a child and felt the detective's fingers curl possessively around the back of his neck.

"I just want to solve this case and stop feeling the burn in my veins," he complained petulantly. He pulled back and looked down at John. "I want to go home."

John nodded, reaching up a bit to kiss Sherlock's cheek, but he tensed, so John drew back, taking the hand that was offered to him as recompense. "Let's go home."

**A/N:** Okay, so an actual note about the story. Out of the two hundred or so of you following this story, and, like, thousands of you that have read it (WOW) tatteredoll is the only one who noticed (or at least said something about- thanks, love) my kind of huge plot hole at Clueless- Sherlock shouldn't have had his phone to be texting Irene, it was still lost. I'm not going to rewrite the chapter, but just so you know it has been pointed out, and I do feel stupid about it. Sorry.


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